


A House Divided

by boxparade



Series: White Houses [2]
Category: Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Coming Out, Established Relationship, M/M, Meet the Family, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:23:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxparade/pseuds/boxparade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Spencer is the worst boyfriend in the world but still manages to be completely, adorably brave, and Brendon meets the family. It's no big deal, except for how it is, because one of the parents is the ruler of the free world, and Brendon's pretty sure there are special missiles tucked away somewhere underground, to be used only for protecting the virtue of the President's son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A House Divided

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to House of Cards, as promised.
> 
> Un-beta'd.

Brendon’s eyes are glued to the TV when there’s a knock on his door. It’s still really weird, the disconnect between his boyfriend and the President’s son. He mostly tries to ignore it and pretend the only thing that’s changed in the last two weeks is his preference in TV channel.

“Come on in!” Brendon yells, because he’s sort of tangled himself in the blanket on the couch, and last time he tried to get up, he just flopped around on the floor for awhile before Shane walked by and decided to help him up.

He hears the door click open, and he thinks sometimes he should consider being a bit more careful, but as it is, no one knows who he’s dating. Yet. He wants to enjoy his freedom for as long as he has it, and that consists of only people he _wants_ here actually knocking. Though that one time the creepy lady that smelled like cats came by.

There are footsteps that stop right behind him, and if whoever walked in was a serial killer, Brendon would probably be dead by now. He’s totally helpless and everything. He can’t even get both arms out of the blanket contraption.

“Are you watching C-Span?” Spencer says, leaning against the back of the couch.

Brendon’s first instinct is to ask where Jon is, but Spencer’s been good about that lately, so he counts on the fact that Jon is outside somewhere and says “Yes.”

Spencer’s hand trails down so his fingers can draw patterns on Brendon’s one bare shoulder. “Why are you watching C-Span?”

Before Spencer can even expect an answer, Brendon sits up excitedly, because he knows this part (seeing as he’s watched it a million times) and says “Shhh! This is my favorite part.” Spencer’s fingers stop momentarily on his skin, and Brendon keeps watching the television, biting his lip.

“What—” Spencer starts to ask, but then Brendon jumps a little excitedly and points at the television, just as it cuts to footage of a pixelated, television-sized Spencer walking out from a lecture hall. “Oh my god,” Spencer breathes behind him, and Brendon likes to think there’s a smile hidden under all those layers of disdain and whining. “Please, god, tell me you’re not watching this for—”

Before Spencer can finish, because Brendon is kind of absurdly happy that his boyfriend is awesome, he says happily “You’re on TV!”

Spencer groans, and his forehead drops down to rest over the hand on Brendon’s shoulder, and Brendon just twists around and smiles at the hair atop Spencer’s head. He darts forward to press a kiss to it, and then says “But it’s awesome! My boyfriend is on TV, how many other people get to say that?”

“Hundreds of celebrity spouses all over the world,” Spencer mumbles, “and I’m sure their spouses hate it just as much” but at that point Brendon is fighting his way out of the blanket cocoon, and having quite a difficult time with it, so he ends up on the floor again.

“Uh, little help, Spence?” He asks, uncertain, and tries to worm his arm through a space in the blankets, only to find he’s wedged himself tighter. This is absolutely the last time he wears fleece pajama pants and a fleece blanket at the same time.

Spencer’s face appears, hovering over Brendon, wedged in between the coffee table and the couch and grinning sheepishly. “You’re crazy,” Spencer states with certainty, and makes no move to help Brendon untangle himself. He sort of rolls around a little more and makes these little whining noises, looking up at Spencer with puppy eyes. All he gets is a cocked eyebrow for his trouble.

“Please?” He begs, because hey, it’s getting kind of uncomfortable, being on the floor. Especially when Brendon would rather be kissing Spencer. Really, it’s in the best interests of both of them.

Spencer makes him wait for it, but eventually he rolls his eyes and crouches down, pulling the blankets at odd angles and trying to avoid being hit in the face by a wayward fist, until Brendon rolls free and winds up half-sprawled in Spencer’s lap. He rolls over so he can look up at Spencer’s face and grins like he knows something Spencer doesn’t. He thinks he’s almost perfected that grin, and he’s really proud of it.

Spencer is more amused than he lets on, trying to tamp down his smile, but Brendon can see it anyway. “Why do I put up with you?” He asks, sliding his legs out from under Brendon’s head, and then grabbing him by the wrists and pulling him upright.

Brendon stumbles against him on purpose, presses a quick kiss to his lips, and sing-songs “Because you lo~ove me.”

Spencer laughs, flicks at Brendon’s ear, and lets him go to find the shirt he supposedly left here last week, which, according to Spencer, is the entire purpose for his visit. Brendon isn’t fooled. A booty call is a booty call.

“Yeah, basically,” Spencer says quietly, and then disappears into Brendon’s room. It takes a moment for Brendon to catch up with what Spencer was replying to, but when he does, he warms and smiles. Chewing on his lip, he follows Spencer into the bedroom, where he’s putting up a nice front, searching under the bed and everything.

Brendon stops and leans against the door frame, watching the line of Spencer’s back, the way the muscles in his shoulders shift when he reaches under the bed. He bites down hard on his lip to keep from saying something embarrassing, and Spencer finally rights himself, unsteadily. He turns around with a triumphant grin on his face, and in his hand is a light pink T-shirt that Brendon would’ve bet, fifteen minutes ago, didn’t actually exist.

He raises his eyebrows in a question, says “You found it.”

Spencer just grins a little wider. “Don’t even joke. This is my favorite T-shirt.”

“Is it now?” Brendon asks. He’s more than aware the deeper tone his voice has slipped into, the way it flows a bit more smoothly. He totally has this seduction thing down.

“Yeah,” Spencer answers honestly, and Brendon’s starting to think he may not have caught on yet.

Brendon darts his tongue out to wet his lips. “Good thing you found it. I guess you can go home, now.” Brendon grins sharply, but slow, pushing his weight off the frame and taking a few small steps forward. “Unless you can think of something else to do.”

Spencer presses his lips together, trying to hold back a grin or something, and then bursts out laughing. “Really, Bren? That’s the best you can do to seduce me?”

“Oh my god, shut up!” Brendon yells, but he’s laughing himself. He covers the distance left between then and jerks the ridiculous pink T-shirt out of Spencer’s grasp, throwing it back in the corner with a steadily growing pile of laundry. “I was totally on my game.”

“Maybe if we were in a porno,” Spencer jokes, and then yelps a little when Brendon wraps his arms around his neck and darts forward to nip at his ear. “Seriously—” Spencer starts.

“No!” Brendon says quickly, dancing back a few steps, just out of reach. “Seriously, you don’t get to criticize my seduction techniques. You tried to seduce me with _omelets._ ”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Spencer questions, and takes a halting step forward. Brendon just holds his ground and pins him with a narrow-eyed look.

“Yeah, but I’m easy.”

Spencer rolls his eyes. “Oh, good to know. My boyfriend is a whore.”

Brendon narrows his eyes a fraction more and then says, flippantly, “I guess you really don’t want this, then.” He waves his hand loosely, gesturing to himself, and watches the slight flush that Spencer tries to hide. Spencer opens his mouth to say something, but before he can Brendon cuts in quickly, “Don’t think I won’t make you work for it.”

Spencer huffs out a breath and crosses his arms, trying to play it like he’s actually annoyed, but Brendon knows better. “I hate you,” he says.

“No you don’t,” Brendon teases, darting a fraction of a step forward. “You love me,” and, before he can convince himself to stop, “I heard you say it.”

Spencer opens his mouth, like he’s about to respond, but snaps it shut again. This time, the flush makes it all the way up his neck, to his cheeks, and it makes his face look bright and warm. Brendon’s resolve starts to ebb away, and he steps forward again, lets his grin just keep widening. Spencer darts his eyes up, catches Brendon’s open smile and the way he’s inching forward, and Brendon swears he never saw a blue so warm.

When Brendon finally takes that last step, Spencer reaches out and pulls him forward by the hips, and when their lips touch, it’s hot and fast and just enough of too-much all at once. Brendon surges forward, knocks them both back onto the bed, and chases after Spencer’s taste, warm and wet and familiar.

Spencer strips them of their shirts, throwing them hastily off to join the ranks of the rest of the laundry, and Brendon just knows he’s going to wind up losing all his shirts in here. He doesn’t particularly care, though, when Spencer’s chest is broad and warm under his fingers, gentle at first but then rough, hard, desperate.

Brendon breaks away from Spencer’s mouth, gasping, but moves straight on down to his jaw. He bites at the bit of stubble Spencer missed that morning, licks a line down his throat, sucks a bruise into Spencer’s skin, stretched over his collarbone. Spencer’s breath hitches, and his hands rush hot down Brendon’s sides, resting low on his hips and shoving Brendon down until there’s a burst of friction over Brendon’s cock.

The sudden contact is dizzying but so fucking hot, and Brendon thinks he mumbles _“Jesus,”_ just before he closes his mouth over Spencer’s nipple, and Spencer throws his head back and moans.

He pushes his hips down, grinding against Spencer, seeking more heat, more movement, just _more,_ but Spencer seems to decide at the same moment he does that there’s no way they’re letting this end with their pants on, and he grabs Brendon by the hips and flips them over.

“Off, off,” Spencer chants, rushed, as his fingers fumble with Brendon’s drawstring. As much as Brendon is all for this plan, he can feel the heat radiating off Spencer’s body, and he grabs Spencer by the shoulders and pulls him down for a kiss, working his tongue deep, pushing his hips up just as Spencer gives up on the string and just shoves Brendon’s pants down.

Brendon can’t help the slightly broken cry at the rush of friction and then the stop, and his hands dart downward and find their way to Spencer’s fly, already half undone. Spencer distracts him by kissing his way down Brendon’s neck, slow and sharp, and it takes way longer than it should to finally shove Spencer’s jeans down around his thighs. He doesn’t waste any time, just pushes Spencer’s boxers down and wraps his hand around Spencer’s cock, tight and warm.

Spencer chokes on a gasp and sort of falls into Brendon, and Brendon uses that moment to push Spencer onto his back, palm slowly sliding to the tip, running his thumb over the head and sucking in a sharp breath at the wetness there. Brendon slides his entire body down, pulling Spencer’s jeans the rest of the way off and letting them puddle on the floor, and then he looks up at Spencer and grins. He puffs out a cool breath right over Spencer’s erection, and Spencer slams his head back into the bed and says “Oh my god, you are such a _tease._ ”

Brendon grins, satisfied, and curves his hands around Spencer’s hips, anchoring himself as he sucks the tip of Spencer’s cock into his mouth. It’s a little bitter, and Brendon’s still getting used to the taste because they’ve only done this twice now, but he thinks he likes it. He runs his tongue in tentative circles, sort of chuckles at the moan Spencer gives at that, and then wraps one of his hands around the base so he doesn’t choke himself, and slides down a little more.

Spencer writhes when Brendon starts twisting his hand a little, pairing it with a quick slide of his tongue, and he has to keep Spencer’s hips pressed down firmly into the mattress. He loves watching Spencer come apart like this, the way his breathing quickens and he starts making helpless little whines. He brings one hand up from where it was clenching the sheet to curl in Brendon’s hair, gently, and Brendon hollows his cheeks and nearly grins at the way Spencer just vibrates beneath him.

Spencer starts saying “Bren” over and over again, and Brendon glows, licks a broad stripe up from the base, and wraps a smile back around the tip when Spencer keens. He thinks he’s gotten a lot better since the last time he did this, because that had been something of a disaster, but this time he’s pushing Spencer just to the brink, quickly, so quickly, and he removes his hand from around the base and slides deeper, just enough, not too far.

Spencer’s voice changes, drops a register, and he starts tugging at Brendon’s hair a little frantically, saying “Bren, I’m gonna—” and before Brendon can even make a decision, Spencer’s coming, the not-quite-bitter taste flooding his mouth, and he swallows instinctively as he pulls back, scrunching up his nose in contemplation and trying to figure out if he likes the taste.

Before he can compose himself, though, Spencer’s tugging him up roughly, pressing his mouth to Brendon’s and chasing his own taste, and _whoa, fuck,_ this just became so much hotter, he doesn’t even _know._ A whine comes from the back of his throat, mouth opening wider against Spencer’s, and he lets Spencer manhandle him down onto the mattress. Spencer pulls away, starts to mouth his way down, but Brendon grabs him by the shoulder and says, panting “No, just—I’m like, five seconds—”

Spencer gets the picture, lets Brendon pull him by his hair so they’re kissing again, pausing only so Spencer can lick a broad strip up his hand. Brendon shivers, and his hips jerk up when Spencer wraps his hand around him, confident and strong and just a little rough. Brendon moans, and his breath quickens and he can’t really concentrate enough to keep on kissing Spencer, mostly just whining against his lips and fucking into Spencer’s hand.

Spencer pulls away from his mouth, and Brendon’s eyes are kind of screwed shut so he doesn’t see, but moments later Spencer’s other hand creeps down, brushing past his balls, and then the tip of a spit-slick finger is pushing _into_ Brendon’s body, and Brendon’s hips fly off the mattress and a tingling heat runs through his body as he comes, Spencer’s name sliding past his lips, every limb burning with pleasure until it all just releases and he collapses back into the mattress, Spencer’s weight familiar and warm on top of him.

Brendon takes at least a couple of minutes remembering how to breathe, and then he lets a lazy smile play on his lips and he says “Wow.” That’s about as articulate as he’s going to get for awhile.

Spencer fucking _giggles_ , and then rolls off Brendon to the side, turning Brendon by the hip so he can rest his arm over Spencer’s chest, still rising and falling quickly. Brendon buries a laugh of his own into the side of Spencer’s chest, warm and slick, and he waits until they’re both a bit less glowy to shift his face up so he can kind of see Spencer.

Spencer’s smiling, just a bit, and he lifts his head up when Brendon shifts, watches Brendon’s face for a moment before letting his head thump back and his grin widen. “I take this to mean I should suggest that I might, possibly love you more often?” Spencer asks, lightly.

Brendon nips at the skin on Spencer’s chest, then says playfully “Nope. You should love me _all_ the time.” He doesn’t really expect any response to that, because he’s not quite sure where Spencer stands on this whole love-thing, but Brendon’s already said it about a million times because it’s just something he _says,_ especially when there’s coffee involved, so he figures Spencer’s got to be the one to make it mean something more than oh-my-god-you-brought-me-coffee-you’re-my-favorite.

“I do love you all the time,” Spencer says, easily, and Brendon doesn’t even try to fight the wild joy that takes over his face.

“Me too,” Brendon says quickly, hugging Spencer closer, then adds “To you, I mean. Well, I love myself a lot too, but like, I love you all the time and stuff.”

Spencer snorts, says “And stuff?” with a lilting amusement, and Brendon just tells him to shut up. Besides, there’s a gross sticky spot somewhere on this bed, and Spencer is in no place to be mocking Brendon when it’s his job to clean it up. Since they’re always having sex at Brendon’s place, because Spencer lives in the _fucking White House_ because he is the son of the freaking _President._

“Oh my god,” Brendon says, because he definitely just blew the First Son (again) and he doesn’t know if he’s ever going to get over that fact. It’s only been, like, a few weeks. You gotta give a guy more time than that.

Spencer groans, and shoves at Brendon but doesn’t actually succeed at moving him. “Are you gonna say that every time?” Spencer asks, exasperated.

“Shut up, that could’ve been a really-hot-sex oh my god or an ‘oh my god I think I left the oven on’ or—”

“Or, it could be an ‘I just had sex with the President’s son’ oh my god, which it _has_ been, _every_ timesince I told you.” Spencer sighs, put-upon, but Brendon knows better and Spencer doesn’t actually blame him for it. Besides, Brendon’s convinced the novelty will wear off, eventually. Probably.

“Yeah, okay. But still, enjoy this while you can. I’ll probably think you’re boring and normal in another week.” Brendon smiles and bites his lip, because that’s pretty much a lie, what with the carousel music still playing in his head when he’s not paying attention.

“Yeah, right,” Spencer says with a roll of his eyes, and they drift back into the quiet stillness of whatever remains of their afterglow, breathing in tandem and keeping each other warm.

 

 

 

Spencer, for all his hopes and dreams of avoiding Jon until the end of time, couldn’t exactly get rid of him. Not when both Ryan and Brendon were on his case, bitching at him to be nice to the guy who was _just doing his job_ while pointing a gun at his boyfriend. Spencer’s still not entirely over it, but he puts up with Jon tailing him everywhere he goes, and that’s enough for now.

Ryan, though. He’s being fucking _weird._ Granted, Ryan is always weird, disappearing into his head and frantically writing in tiny writing on the back of napkins, or sometimes, on his arms. Spencer is insanely glad he’s chosen to cook for a living, because it seems a hell of a lot less stressful than whatever Ryan is doing. Also, less damaging to his skin. All that sharpie ink can’t be good for it.

Still, he’s been acting stranger than usual, quieter whenever Jon is around. And he keeps toting the huge, puppy-dog eyes, and Spencer only ever sees those when Ryan _really_ wants something, or when he’s trying to seduce someone.

This time, Ryan’s got the puppy-eyes following Jon around as he circles around the restaurant. They’re grabbing lunch at this sandwich place, just the two of them because Brendon’s working and Ryan keeps bitching about being forced to watch them be all lovey-dovey. Never mind that they don’t so much as hold hands in public anymore, not now that Spencer isn’t disguised and they’ve got Jon standing around, looking all official and scary.

“Seriously, it’s like freaking Bambi up in here!” Spencer snaps, and Ryan’s eyes blink back to normal and he turns a narrowed gaze on Spencer.

“What are you talking about?”

Spencer rolls his eyes, because Ryan can’t honestly think he’s this stupid, and then decides to cut to the chase, because Ryan can be rather thick for someone that does so much damn thinking. “Make your move and screw the guy already, I’m sick of watching you pine.”

Ryan, who had gone back to watching Jon, snaps his gaze back to Spencer and says, perfectly flat, “Well, sorry, but seeing as it’s your fault I can’t jump that, you can just deal with it.”

Spencer frowns, a deep crease between his eyebrows, and asks “What? How is it my fault?”

Ryan rolls his eyes, being exceptionally prissy about it. “Jon’s job is to protect _you_. If all he can think about is how hot I am–” Spencer snorts at Ryan’s egotism “he’s not going to catch the crazy guy with the gun, is he?”

Spencer blinks, because that’s an entirely valid point, and waves his hand around lazily when he makes his decision. “I don’t care.”

Ryan sighs, like it’s so much trouble to deal with him, and Spencer really needs a better best friend. Honestly, it’s getting bad. “Well, the rest of us do. Especially Brendon. I’d imagine he’d be quite distraught if you got shot. He looks _so_ much cuter with something in his mouth.”

Spencer whips his fork at Ryan, clips him in the ear, and pointedly ignores both Ryan’s shout of indignation and the waitress’ annoyed glare. So long as there isn’t someone around to snap pictures of him doing this shit, he thinks he’s justified and totally within his rights.

“You’re a whore, and I hate you,” Spencer says simply, then goes back to sipping his Coke and completely ignoring Ryan. Eventually, Jon seems satisfied with whatever it was he was doing, and comes to squeeze in next to Ryan and help himself to the plate of fries on the table. He’s still got his game face on, keeping his eyes open and locked on the door in case anyone new comes in, but he’s not acting like actual secret service anymore, so Spencer forgives him. Sort of.

He still doesn’t forgive the thing with the gun and Brendon. Jon is going to be on the shit list for that _forever._

 

 

 

Spencer thinks, at least maybe, that he hates Ryan. And possibly, part of that hate is really just envy. Because Ryan doesn’t have to show Jon his panic button every time he wants to go anywhere, and Ryan doesn’t have to wait until public bathrooms are empty before going in, and Ryan doesn’t have to worry about getting caught by photographers while he’s pressing some flamboyant guy into the grimy wall.

Spencer honestly has _no idea_ why he goes to these things. No idea at all. Ryan, for whatever reason, thinks they’re important, and so he goes and drags Spencer along, and Spencer usually spends his time hanging around on couches with a can of Sprite and Jon, while Ryan schmoozes every pretty boy he can find.

Plus, Jon is being kind of pissy, though he’s still doing his job, but he keeps sneaking glances at Ryan and trying to kill the other guy with his brain, no doubt. Honestly, the sexual tension there is getting to be way too much, and Spencer’s tempted to lock them in a secure room until they just get it out of their system, fuck the consequences.

The music is bad, and it’s way too loud, and while Spencer’s sure Jon has done a full run of absolutely everyone in this room, and he knows there are at least four secret service guys pretending to be drunk college kids and wandering around, he still doesn’t like it here. Though that’s not so much about him feeling unsafe as it is about him feeling claustrophobic. Jon catches him before Spencer can actually get up and take off, and Spencer says prissily “Just going to find someplace quiet, jeez” and shakes Jon off, knowing full well the guy that sort of stumbles around, tailing him, is actually one of his security guys. The shoes he’s wearing are all wrong.

Spencer takes off upstairs, navigating through the stupid people that think it’s a good idea to get drunk while standing on a staircase, and he pushes his way into the third door he finds—the first two, unfortunately, had couples in them. Spencer had honestly hoped all those college stereotypes were just for the movies, but he was proven wrong.

He locks the door, even though he knows the secret service guy will get all riled up about it, but the room is empty, anyway, and it’s kind of quiet. Whoever’s room it is, they seem to be like a mesh between stereotypical frat boy and inner geek. Spencer doesn’t miss the old band posters that still hang up next to all the hot, half-naked chicks and motorcycles and shit. He probably tells everyone they’re old and he’s too lazy to take them down, or something. Right.

He sighs, knowing that about now, Ryan’s found some secluded place to screw his new boytoy into oblivion, while Jon continues ignoring him so hard that he winds up being super-agent and hounding Spencer. Suddenly, the thought of going back down to the party has bile rising in the back of his throat, and he doesn’t think he will.

He really shouldn’t. He knows this, he’s always known this, and even now, he knows Jon is going to have his head for doing this, but— Well, Spencer is getting really fed up with all the security, and shit. Sometimes, that just happens, and he’s learned not to fight it. He knows there’s someone stationed outside—there’s always someone outside—but he waits until he sees some chick, dressed normally, walk by beneath the window. She’s doing the tell-tale signal that screams “I’m secret service!” which is mostly just talking into her sleeve. Before Spencer learned otherwise, he also thought that was something reserved for movies and bad TV.

She rounds the corner, and Spencer vaults himself out the window and down the trellis on the side of the house like a well-oiled machine. His feet hit the ground quietly, and he pulls up his hood, keeping his head low as he quickly stalks off the premises, around the neighbor’s bushes, and starts down the street. He doesn’t let himself look until he’s well at the end of the block, and it’s dark and mostly quiet except for the occasional party, and he sighs a breath of relief and turns the corner to make his way to the diner.

He shoots Ryan a text, a simple _hey wnt 2 diner 2 get bden, goin 2 his plc, tell jon not 2 freak_ which he knows Ryan won’t get until Jon gets freaked out enough to find him and ask. Hopefully, Ryan and his toy will either be done by then, or not far enough along to scar Jon for life. No matter what hang-ups Ryan says he has about hooking up with Jon while he’s Spencer’s agent, he’s really not earning himself any points by blatantly flaunting the fact that he’s a whore.

A gay whore. Spencer is maybe a bit hung-up about that whole _out and proud_ thing himself.

Brendon’s working tonight, but he should be getting off soon, and normally, Spencer would wait out back so he wouldn’t attract to much attention, but he figures he’s in deep shit already, so a little more risk-taking won’t be the end of the world. Besides, he’s totally convinced his hoodie and the fact that Ryan smudged some eyeliner on him will be more than enough to disguise himself.

He walks in the front door to the diner, the bell chiming quaintly, and he’s relieved to see there are only two other customers, a tired-looking mother and her young son, neither of which seem particularly interested in Spencer.

William is there, though. Spencer hasn’t seen him since that one time he asked for Brendon’s address, and with the way William had grinned at him, he’d been confused as to whether William had any idea who he was, or if he just creeped everyone out like that.

William seems entirely hung up on the cook, though, who’s out in front and leaning in conspiratorially to whisper to William. Spencer doesn’t wanna know what they’re talking about.

There’s a kind of small guy with tattoos _everywhere_ that is standing behind the counter, but doesn’t seem to actually work there, and he just looks up and stares at Spencer when he walks in. Eventually, though, he shrugs and goes back to wiping down glasses, and Spencer wonders if maybe he works there, but doesn’t wear the uniform.

Still, this place has started building a reputation of letting pretty much anyone behind the counters. Spencer proved that. He approaches the counter, sitting himself down on one of the sparkly stools lining it, and asks the tattooed guy “Hi, is Brendon here?”

Tattoo guy eyes him warily, seems to come to some sort of decision, and calls toward the back “Hey, Brendon! There’s a guy here to see you.” The guy turns back to Spencer, tilts his head to the side, smiles, and adds “He’s really hot!”

When Brendon pops out from the back, Spencer’s flushing bright red and trying to ignore the way William, the cook, and the tattoo guy are staring at him with predatory looks.

“Hey!” Brendon says, brightly, then with a furrow of his brow “What are you doing here?”

Spencer forces his embarrassment down and shrugs as casually as he can manage. “Parties are stupid.”

Brendon leans over the counter and gives him a quick peck on the lips, to which William, the cook, and the tattoo guy all start cat-calling. Spencer buries his face in his arms on the counter and tries to stop himself from smiling ridiculously. He hears Brendon yell “Shut up!” at all of them, but he’s laughing so it’s okay. “Frank, what are you _doing?_ ” He hears Brendon ask. Spencer assumes Frank is the guy with the tattoos then, and lifts his head to watch.

Frank grins pointedly and bats his eyelashes dramatically. “I’m here to give the lovebirds some time. Now go.” He keeps on grinning sharply at Brendon, though Brendon doesn’t seem to be concerned with it.

He tells Spencer to hang on, disappears into the back (during which time William, the cook that someone called Gabe, and Frank all stare at him and grin. It’s creepy) and reappears in a moment, no longer wearing his uniform, with his car keys jangling in his hand.

“Let’s go,” Brendon says sunnily, grabbing Spencer’s hand and pulling him toward the back entrance, still completely ignoring the way William, Gabe, and Frank are all obnoxious. As soon as they’re out the back door, Brendon turns and kisses Spencer a bit more slowly, running his tongue along Spencer’s lip.

Spencer grins just as Brendon pulls away and looks around. “Where’s Jon?”

Spencer’s smile slides right off his face, and he tries to act nonchalant as he starts walking toward Brendon’s car, saying “Oh, um, around—”

“Spencer!” Brendon says, jogging up next to him. “ _Please_ tell me you didn’t ditch your security _again._ ”

Brendon looks honestly angry, and Spencer winces. “Sorry?” He tries, and lets Brendon herd him into the car and start driving, because they’re a bit safer inside a big metal box than they are out in the open. Honestly, everyone takes his security a bit too seriously. Nothing’s ever happened to any President’s kids, and he highly doubts anything is going to happen now.

“As soon as we get back, I’m calling Jon,” Brendon says as he pulls out of the diner employee parking lot. Spencer grumbles, but he doesn’t argue because he knows he’s never going to win. He misses the times when it was just Ryan and him, sneaking around at odd hours because he was just the Vice President’s kid, and no one cared about him. Now, even Ryan seems to be bitching at him about security, though Spencer thinks it’s mostly because he’s secretly in love with Jon and wants to make him happy. Even though he says it’s never going to happen while Jon is Spencer’s agent.

The drive home is short, though it seems longer because Brendon’s not really talking to him much. He seems more worried than angry, anyway, and Spencer’s hit with a wave of guilt for making Brendon worry. Brendon walks unusually fast from his parking spot to the entrance to their apartment, and sort of deflates when they make it to his door. He’s pretty sure Brendon is overreacting to this whole no-security thing, mostly because Spencer spent five months going out with Brendon without security and nothing ever happened.

He doesn’t pay any mind to Spencer, just gets his phone out of his pocket and calls up Jon. Spencer plops himself down on the couch and turns on Food Network, but he can still hear the frantic yell coming from the other end of the phone. He winces, because Brendon shouldn’t be dealing with his mess, but he’s already done it so there’s no use brooding. Tonight just…isn’t a good night for him.

He hears Brendon hang up, and moments later he comes to stand in between Spencer and the television, where Paula Dean is making some horrible monster of fat and sugar dessert. “I’m gonna go change,” Brendon says shortly. He’s not angry, just sort of exhausted, maybe, and Spencer fights the urge to start banging his head against something. He can feel a headache starting. “Jon’s sending someone over for when you leave.”

“He’s not coming himself?” Spencer asks, because he honestly expected Jon to stomp through the door and yell his ear off.

Brendon makes a face, like this entire discussion is rather unpleasant, and says “No. He said he’d end up shooting you if he came here himself.” Brendon smiles tightly at that, and Spencer rolls his eyes a little, but they both know it’s not really as funny as it should be. “Spence—”

Spencer looks up, because Brendon’s voice got all serious, and he _really_ just wants to curl up with his boyfriend and watch the nice southern lady make super-double chocolate cake. He doesn’t want to talk about Jon, or his father, or the fact that he can’t actually be like other nineteen-year-olds all over the country. It’s infuriating, and it makes him want to hit something, and he doesn’t want to be the President’s son right now, he wants to be Spencer the guy that likes to cook and make out with his hot boyfriend and not call someone every time he wants to go out.

Brendon seems to get it, though, because he’s the most awesome boyfriend in the world, and he just nods and goes to change. Spencer settles himself more comfortably on the couch and turns up the volume a bit. When Brendon walks back in, he’s wearing really soft pajamas, and he’s got his glasses on, and he curls up right next to Spencer and purrs when Spencer pulls the blanket down and over them.

Brendon snorts a little at the channel, and argues that the weird, four-layered cake thing is pretty much impossible to make, to which Spencer starts explaining how she did it, step by step. It’s what they do, Brendon poking fun at the weird things they make on all the cooking channels, Spencer telling him he’s made that one, tried that one, always wanted to tweak the recipe for that one.

It’s soothing, and it slows down Spencer’s heartbeat, lulls the throbbing headache away some, sucks all the bitterness right out of him and leaves him pliant and relaxed. Spencer kisses at Brendon’s temple, then on the arch of his cheek, and then Brendon is turning up and lazily licking his way into Spencer’s mouth, and then they slow and speed up and slow and stop, breathing the same air and resting. Brendon works his head right under Spencer’s chin, one ear pressed against his chest as his fingers trace patterns on the bit of skin exposed where Spencer’s T-shirt rode up.

Spencer tries to shift his focus back to the television, where that crazy guy with the bleached hair is riding around in a convertible and invading people’s restaurants, but Brendon draws him back. “Wanna talk about it?”

Spencer searches his mind for some kind of meaning to what Brendon’s referring to, but he can’t really pinpoint anything specific, so he asks “Talk about what?”

Brendon shrugs, and it’s weird with their position, the way his shoulders move against Spencer’s skin. “Why you’re all upset and tense.”

Spencer feels a flare of anger, but it’s pointless getting mad at Brendon because none of this is his fault. He makes everything better. He thinks about it for a bit, because even he can’t quite figure out what it is that’s got him running hot today, snapping at everyone and feeling like he’s grinding glass between his teeth. He sighs, because there’s really only ever one thing that bothers him anyway, and mumbles “I don’t wanna be the President’s kid.”

Brendon chuckles a little, but it’s soft and he doesn’t mean it in a bad way, so Spencer doesn’t say anything. “Sorry, you’re pretty much SOL in that area.”

Spencer sighs and brings his fingers up to run through Brendon’s hair. “Yeah, I know.” They slipped back into a comfortable silence, and some loud-mouthed chef was screaming at them about baked french toast, and Spencer fought down the worst of his worries, and buried his nose in Brendon’s hair.

 

 

 

Brendon was about three minutes from blissful sleep when Spencer’s chest rumbled underneath him, and he said something, and “What?” Brendon asks, because he hadn’t heard. It comes out mumbled, but he shifts himself a little and grips Spencer’s shirt to hold himself in place.

“When you came out,” Spencer says, quiet and unsure, “how did—I mean. Was it okay? I don’t—”

Brendon pulls himself up to kiss Spencer silent, because he’s working himself up and he’s got no reason to. Not with Brendon, anyway. When Spencer seems suitably calm, Brendon snuggles back down against his chest, warm and broad and right. He closes his eyes and breathes deep.

“Sort of,” he answers, honestly. “I mean, everyone here has been awesome—Frank and Gerard and William and Greta and Shane—they’re all awesome, and they think you’re awesome. Even though to most of them, you’re just this guy that happens to be my boyfriend.”

Spencer huffs out a breath and says “I _am_ just a guy that happens to be your boyfriend.”

Brendon smiles, says “Yeah, babe,” warmly, and ignores the snort Spencer gives at ‘babe’ because Brendon knows he secretly loves it. He takes a breath and gives himself a moment before pressing on. It’s—He doesn’t talk about his parents all that often, now that he’s here. He doesn’t talks about Vegas much at all, because most of it is tainted with bad memories and the dull ache that he gets in his chest every time he thinks about calling home and remembers the last few strained conversations he had with his mother. That was before the phone calls tapered off completely and they both gave up. He likes grounding himself in the here and the now, his music and his work with the kids at the center, and now Spencer. The good things. The best.

“It’s not—” he starts quickly, almost defensively, and stops himself. “Back home,” he says slowly, careful, “it wasn’t as easy. My parents are very religious, and I didn’t really have any friends in high school to back me up, and they just—they didn’t get it. They didn’t understand me, and why I wanted to make music so much, and why I kept pulling away from the Church. I moved out when I was seventeen, got a full ride here, and we tried but— We’re too different. I didn’t want to keep hearing about how I was ruining my life, and my mother didn’t want to hear about my music or my kids or anything, and we just stopped calling.”

Spencer makes a pained sound beneath him, something like sympathy, and Brendon’s heart contracts because he realizes suddenly that he has someone who cares about this now. Someone who cares about him and wants him to be happy, and it makes him smile a little sadly. He thinks, maybe, if his mother could’ve learned to see past everything—she would’ve liked Spencer. He’s down-to-earth and has that dry sort of humor and he’s good for Brendon. They would’ve gotten along, in another life.

“It’s okay, though,” Brendon says quickly, because he doesn’t want Spencer doing something drastic. He probably wouldn’t, but still… “I miss them sometimes, but I’m here, and I’m happy, and I think, maybe one day, if I make it with my music and we’ve all had time to cool down… I don’t know, I want them to watch me play, like maybe they’d see. Eventually. Maybe.”

Spencer makes some sort of complicated hum beneath him, and Brendon smiles giddily and turns to hide his face against the softness of Spencer’s shirt, and presses his head back against Spencer’s fingers as they brush through his hair.

“Doesn’t exactly inspire confidence and hope in a guy,” Spencer says, low and rumbling, and Brendon grins.

“Yeah, well, mine was a special case.”

“ _Special,_ indeed,” Spencer mutters, and Brendon whacks him sharply on the hip but doesn’t move. Spencer lets out a breath and Brendon feels the way his chest goes down, and then back up. They’ve built up enough heat under the blanket that it’s starting to feel just right, like those mornings you just don’t want to get out of bed because it’s too soft and warm.

Spencer sighs again, and it’s not a content sigh but a tense one, and it’s worrying Brendon because he’s been off for the last week, and he wants it to stop so his boyfriend can be happy and relax. “Seriously,” he says, “what’s bothering you?”

Spencer deliberates for awhile, squirming around and making half-attempts at talking, but Brendon pushes him down firmly into the couch and holds him still until he starts talking. It seems to be a pretty good plan, because Spencer starts talking moments later.

“I feel like I’m lying to everyone. Or—not everyone, because Ryan and Jon and you and the random people you work with, and that William guy—” Brendon laughs, “but my family? They have no idea. Neither do the people in my classes.” Spencer chews on his lip—Brendon can only tell because his chin keeps pressing into Brendon’s head—and stops talking.

“And you’re worried about coming out because…” Brendon trails off, thinking he knows the answer, but wanting Spencer to say it anyway.

He forces out a breath and brings his free hand to card through his own hair before returning to Brendon’s. “The media,” he says shortly, and Brendon nods. “I wish I could just—” Spencer exclaims, and then cuts himself short with a breath. “It’s all or nothing, for me. I tell one person, and suddenly some news reporter somewhere gets an exclusive and the whole country knows.”

Brendon thinks for a minute, because yeah, that’s mostly true. Though Shane knows, and he hasn’t said anything, though Brendon mostly thinks that’s because he knows Brendon would kill him if he did. And the people that’ve seen them at the diner know, but they have no idea who Spencer is. ‘Low profile’ was an understatement, as it turned out. Spencer has been basically invisible since his father took office. Brendon thinks it’s got something to do with his sisters filling the spotlight in his stead, quite happily, as it turned out.

“What about your family?” Brendon asks, because they all know the stress of being under constant scrutiny. They wouldn’t go running to a reporter with a story.

Spencer shakes his head, and Brendon’s head moves with it, strangely. “Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, and I think they’d be okay with this, but the first thing any of them are gonna do is call up Ally—the Press Secretary—and put together a contingency plan. Then Ally will want me to say it before it ends up coming out on its own.” Spencer laughs darkly, “I’m probably lucky it’s lasted this long. That one time I accidentally burned myself trying to bake a birthday cake for Ryan and had to go to the hospital, the media knew about it before my parents did.”

Brendon hums in response, trying to imagine how weird it must be for Spencer, sometimes. Spencer has less coverage than most celebrities, and Brendon thinks it still sounds like too much.

“Bren, I—” Spencer says, sort of strangled, and then cuts himself off sharply and refuses to continue even when Brendon rubs soothing patterns into the side of his stomach.

“Hmm?” Brendon prompts, and presses his fingers into Spencer’s hip, hard enough for him to feel it, but not hard enough to hurt.

“This is really unfair of me, and I know it is, but—” Spencer pauses, drawing it out, and Brendon tries to radiate acceptance and love, though he’s not sure how much is getting through. “If I…wanted to tell people, just— Get it over with, come out and tell everyone, media be damned, would you— I mean, I—”

“Spence,” Brendon says roughly.

“Would you be with me?” Spencer forces out, all too quickly, and tenses up.

Brendon pushes himself up so he can look at Spencer, but his eyes are squeezed shut, like he’s bracing himself, and Brendon whispers “Idiot,” and leans forward to kiss him chastely. “Yes,” he says, pulling away. “Of course. You honestly need to stop thinking I’m this asshole that’s going to take off when things get a little tough.”

Spencer opens his eyes, warm and sort of puddle-y, if that’s even a valid description. It feels like it is, for Brendon. “You know there are going to be reporters,” Spencer warns, unsure.

“Yeah.”

“And cameras with freaking telephoto lenses.”

“Yeah.”

“And people are going to attack you with a bunch of rude questions.”

“William will beat them to the punch,” Brendon snorts, and raises his eyebrows, waiting for Spencer to continue because he still doesn’t understand that Brendon knows what this means.

“And all the crazies all over the country are going to come out of the woodwork,” Spencer finishes, narrowing his eyes.

Brendon just smirks and says clearly “I know.”

Spencer darts between each of Brendon’s eyes, trying to get some sort of read or something. Brendon’s arms are starting to tire from holding himself up like this, but it’s worth it to see Spencer’s face when he finally gets it, that Brendon _knows_ exactly what this means, and he’s okay with it. He’s not going to freak out and take off. Brendon’s really starting to wonder if he needs to ask more questions about the ex-girlfriends, because Spencer has some issues that can’t stem just from being the President’s son.

Then Spencer gets this sort of triumphant look in his eyes, and smirks, and Brendon doesn’t like where this is going, it— “And you’re going to have to meet my dad.”

Brendon’s eyes go wide as soon as the words reach his brain, and he blinks down at Spencer and says “Oh, fuck,” and lets himself collapse back onto his chest. He’s going to have to—oh, fucking hell. Fucking _hell._ “Can’t we just—”

“Nope.”

“But I really think—”

“No way, Bren.”

Brendon pushes himself up again and shoots a glare at Spencer, who is grinning like he just won the fucking lottery, damn him. “Don’t you _even,_ ” he snaps, and the smile tones down just a notch. “Meeting the parents is scary enough, but your dad has _missile codes_ and _personal ninjas_ with _guns,_ and—”

“Ninjas?” Spencer mocks, a laugh threatening to burst through his lips. Brendon just keeps glaring.

“Satellites with _super cameras,_ Spence. He’s going to track me every second of every day and if I so much as step the wrong way, _he’s going to vaporize me with space lasers._ ”

At that, Spencer cracks up despite what Brendon hopes is his most intimidating expression. And honestly, he has, like, _no right_ to laugh, not at all, because this is fucking terrifying. Spencer’s dad is the ruler of the free world, he _owns_ Brendon’s ass. He owns _everyone._

“This is not funny,” Brendon pouts, poking Spencer sharply in the side until he yelps. It’s oddly satisfying.

“Space lasers, Bren?” Spencer asks, incredulously, and breaks into laughter again. Brendon huffs indignantly and collapses back onto Spencer’s chest, letting himself smile because yeah, this was maybe a little funny. It was also still way more terrifying, though, and Brendon thinks Spencer should be a bit more sympathetic to this fact. Especially if Brendon’s going to become the media’s puppet for hell knows how long just so Spencer can have his little piece of freedom.

Still. It’ll be worth it, to see Spencer smile like this just a bit more often.

 

 

 

Spencer has maybe, finally calmed down from laughing like a lunatic, and they’re back to snuggling comfortably on the couch, though they’ve changed the channel to the Discovery channel because there’s only so much cooking you can watch before you get irrational cravings for really weird food. Spencer has the advantage of being able to make most of those foods, so the temptation is even greater. He doesn’t think Jon would appreciate him swinging by a grocery store in the middle of the night just to make homemade cinnamon raisin bread.

Spencer’s sort of drifting when there are voices drifting through the door, and then metallic sounds of a key turning the lock, and then Shane and a girl are stumbling through the door, giggling and falling over themselves, probably a little drunk. The girl is trying to get through some sentence about there being a big, burly guy in a suit standing outside their door, which must be the secret service guy Jon sent over. Spencer’s abruptly glad the guy didn’t barge in on them to check the apartment. He’s still kind of pissed that he has to be followed everywhere.

The girl—Regan, as Shane keeps calling her—seems pretty hung up about the guy in front of the door, but she’s about to let it drop, or so Spencer thinks, when Shane says suddenly “Oh, hey guys.”

Brendon, who was maybe sort of asleep, picks his head up off Spencer’s chest and blinks wearily at Shane, then smiles and wiggles off of Spencer to stand up. “Regan,” he says warmly, and then steps out of sight to hug her. “I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Yeah, well, my apartment is nicer,” Regan answers cheerily, laughing at Brendon’s indignant “Hey!” and Shane’s toned-down grumbles. Spencer blinks until his eyes clear and sits up a little straighter to turn and face their guest, who’s hugging Brendon and now, suddenly, staring at Spencer with widening eyes and a look of shock that Spencer knows all too well. He stands up quickly, about to run interference before this gets messy, but then Regan pulls back from Brendon and steps right past him.

She stops, still staring at Spencer like she’s not quite sure what she’s seeing. Spencer shifts uncomfortably, and before he can open his mouth to do the whole “Hey, yes, I’m Spencer Smith, yada yada” speech, she says “Uh, Brendon…”

Brendon turns around, seems to see the look on Spencer’s face and the way Regan is sort of frozen to the spot, and he blushes and says shyly “Regan, this is my boyfriend, Spencer. I—I guess you guys haven’t met yet, huh?”

“Holy _shit,_ ” Regan says, pointedly. At that point, she rounds on Shane and points at him, suddenly red and quite angry. “ _Explain,”_ she says through clenched teeth. Shane looks about ready to piss his pants, and he backs up a step and brings his hands up placatingly.

That’s when Spencer decides it’s about damn time he speaks for himself. He steps forward, puts his hand out toward Regan, and says “Spencer Smith.” Then he waits.

Regan takes the bait, turns back to him with a bit less wonder and shock in her eyes and bit more cautiousness. She takes his hand and shakes it, slowly, her eyes still narrowing as they search Spencer up and down. As if he’s going to pull a rabbit out of his pants, or something.

“You.”

Spencer smacks his lips together nervously and says “Uh, yeah. Hi?”

“Dating _him,_ ” Regan says, sharp, and manages to point directly at Brendon behind her despite the fact that her eyes never move from Spencer’s face. It’s a little creepy, and by now Brendon seems to be watching with the same wide-eyed anticipation as Shane is.

“Yeah,” Spencer replies simply. Sometimes, it’s best to just let these things work themselves out.

“ _Holy_ _shit,_ ” she says again.

“Pretty much.”

“Wow,” Regan says. She turns a look toward Shane again and says “We are _so_ having a talk later.” Shane swallows and nods mutely. Then she turns toward Brendon with a grin so pointy she could poke someone’s eyes out if she’s not careful. Brendon sort of squeaks and jumps under her scrutiny. “You,” she says, smoothly, and Spencer bites back a laugh because honestly, Shane and Brendon are fucking _shaking_ right now. It’s kind of funny. (They also might be onto something there, because this chick is fucking scary.)

Regan must do something then, because Brendon jumps about a foot in the air and then literally _scampers_ around Regan and stands behind Spencer, hands on his shoulders, peeking over his shoulder timidly. Spencer cracks up, covering his eyes with his hand, and Brendon says “Spence, _save me,_ ” all faux-dramatic, and Regan finally lets go of her intimidating scowl and smiles as she watches them.

“Bren, you’re _ridiculous,_ ” Spencer says pointedly, and then rolls his eyes for Regan’s sake. She laughs, clear and bell-like, and Brendon takes that as a sign to wrap his arms around Spencer from behind and prop his chin up on Spencer’s shoulder so their heads a pressed together at the side. Spencer bonks him lightly with his own head, a simple _I love you, you big dork_ and that’s when Regan goes from the scary tiger-lady to the cooing fangirl.

It’s kind of a trippy transition, if Spencer’s honest with himself.

Shane makes himself scarce, probably somewhere in the vicinity of copious amounts of alcohol, and Brendon, Spencer and Regan settle themselves down on the seats so they can get to the slightly more serious part of this little discovery. It mostly consists of Spencer begging Regan not to tell anyone, and Brendon trying to look big and intimidating and overprotective of Spencer.

Regan just says “No, yeah, of course,” and waves a hand flippantly. Spencer knows they won’t really know if she’s being honesty until a week passes and there are no stories in the news, but she seems to be pretty trustworthy, so Spencer lets himself relax.

Shane reappears, handing Regan a glass of wine (probably to ply her so she won’t rip him a new one when they get a minute alone) and sits on the arm of the chair Regan’s in.

“So, _honey,_ ” Regan says, cutting. “How come you didn’t _tell me_ about Brendon’s lovely boyfriend?” Her voice is sickeningly sweet, and Spencer is abruptly glad he’s not Shane, right now. It’s like watching a praying mantis devour their lover, all cold and startlingly easy.

Shane’s immediately on the defensive, not even pretending he’s got a chance. “To be fair, I didn’t even know who he was until his secret service guy showed up and pointed a gun at me.”

Regan seems a little puzzled by that, and Spencer bristles at the memory, but Brendon seems to read his unease and rub soothing circles into his shoulder.

“Wait,” Regan says, turning toward Shane incredulously. “You’re dating me and you didn’t recognize the First Son?” She raises her eyebrows, and Spencer settles back to watch the show.

Shane mumbles something incomprehensible, and then Spencer asks preemptively, “What, are you a reporter?”

“No,” Regan answers, and Spencer visibly relaxes. “I’m a pollster. And a mixed martial arts teacher, but.” She waves her hand around flippantly, as if to say it’s not really important right now.

Spencer supposes it probably isn’t, not with the current situation, but that’s when Brendon highjacks the conversation and starts asking Regan about what’s happened in her life recently, interspersed with answers to Regan’s questions about their relationship, like how they met and how long they’ve been dating and other things. Spencer thinks it’s a pretty good warm-up for the kinds of questions they’re going to get asked if Spencer actually finally goes off the deep end and comes out.

First he’s gotta tell his family, though. For that, he’s going to need Ryan’s support. That is, if Ryan is speaking to him after that little fiasco with him ditching the party and royally pissing Jon off, again. Not that Ryan gives a rat’s ass, because right about now he should be fucked-out with his boy toy and getting prepped to run before the guy wakes up and gets his name.

Eventually, Regan and Brendon tire of things to talk about, and Regan drags Shane off to their bedroom. He’s shaking like a leaf by the time Regan gets him through the door, and Brendon and Spencer are snickering into each other’s shoulders.

“I should probably get going,” Spencer says miserably. He kind of can’t wait until he can stay overnight without anyone asking questions, but for now he’s got to pretend like he’s coming home from the party late, or whatever.

Brendon nods and keeps kissing him all the way to the door, so it takes way longer than usual, but then Spencer pulls back and places one last kiss on Brendon’s temple. “Get some sleep, okay?”

Brendon nods and pads off to bed as Spencer slips out the door, nodding once at the security guy standing at attention right next to it. He thinks the guy gives him a speculative look, but Spencer’s way too exhausted to care what he thinks. He just brings his sleeve up to his mouth and says “Simmer is returning home, bring the car around.”

Spencer rolls his eyes at the codename—he totally got the worst one, Jackie and Crystal are both named after jewels, and his mom gets to be Supernova, which is just _cool_ —and trudges down the steps to see the familiar tinted windows greeting him. He’d sort of rather walk home, since the weather is so nice, but at this point doing anything that might make Jon’s life a little harder is a bad idea. Besides, he can probably doze in the car. It’s a good ten minute drive to the White House, longer if he tells the driver to take the scenic route.

He lets himself be ushered into the car, the agent sliding in after him and still watching him like a hawk. Spencer yawns as he buckles himself in, and decides—quite easily, since it seems like there’s very little he can decide for himself right now—that everyone and everything can just go to hell until morning.

 

 

 

Ryan comes stumbling back into the residence early in the morning, and pokes and prods at Spencer until he can slide into bed next to him. He probably didn’t have a very good time with that eye candy last night, then, because otherwise he wouldn’t be sleeping in Spencer’s bed. Spencer, however, doesn’t particularly care, just whacks at whatever part he can reach and goes back to sleep.

The second time he wakes up that morning, it’s to the covers being violently ripped off his bed, and then what seems to be a pillow whipped at his head. He throws it off and sits up, yelling “What the fuck?” but before he can so much as open his eyes, Jon’s voice cuts in.

“Do you _honestly_ think I’m just going to let you keep fucking around?” Jon’s voice is loud and pounding, and Ryan, who is probably hungover, groans and pulls a pillow over his head, rolling away from Spencer. Spencer really, really wishes he were Ryan right now, despite the hangover and the bad fuck last night.

“Jon—”

“No!” Jon cuts him off, and he’s glowing red. His fists are clenched at his sides, and he seriously looks like he’s one step away from beating Spencer to a pulp. Luckily, it seems like he’s off-duty, because he’s wearing a T-shirt and his gun is nowhere to be found. “That’s it! I’m telling the President. I should’ve told him back when this _started,_ I could be fired for—”

“You can’t tell him yet!” Spencer says sharply, and winces at the volume of his voice. He didn’t get nearly enough sleep to be having this conversation.

“Bullshit!” Jon retorts, taking an angry step toward Spencer. Ryan lifts his head up next to Spencer and shoots Jon an aggravated glare, but then collapses back down and buries himself under the pillow again. “You’re going to get me fired. Or, no! You know what? You’re going to get me _shot,_ and trust me, no one is more pissed off than me that it’s _my job_ to jump in front of a bullet for an _asshole._ ”

Spencer flinches, and chances a look up at Jon, who’s torn between pure rage and wild fear, and if Spencer thought he’d reached the limit of self-hatred back when Brendon had said ‘You lied to me’, he was wrong. So, so wrong. “Jon, I’m sorry,” Spencer says honestly.

As expected, Jon brushes it off, still too angry. “I don’t care! Nothing you say matters! You obviously don’t have _any_ respect for yourself or your life, or, hey, my life, so I can’t be expected to take your words to mean anything. God, Spence,” Jon says, deflating a bit and running a hand through his hair, which is sticking up ridiculously. “Even if it wasn’t my job to protect you, I’d be pissed you’re taking this so lightly. You’re my friend, and I’d rather not see you get kidnapped by a bunch of crazy people with guns, okay?”

Spencer nods blankly, still sort of shell-shocked, because that’s definitely the first time Jon’s referred to them as friends. Spencer realizes that he really wants it to be true, all of the sudden, and is kind of relieved to find out Jon thinks the same way, because, well. Spencer’s gonna need more than Ryan for this whole thing he’s about to do. Because Ryan is kind of emotionally retarded, and also way too philosophical to make sense of anything Spencer’s feeling.

“I’m gonna come out to my family,” Spencer blurts, a bit randomly, and watches as Jon’s eyes widen and then soften, the anger ebbing away. Next to him, Ryan bolts up from where he was failing to sleep, and stares at Spencer openly. He can feel Ryan itching to say something, so before he can, he shrugs and adds “And the rest of the world, I guess.”

It takes a moment or two, but eventually Ryan smiles secretly and places his palm on Spencer’s shoulder in a silent gesture of support. Jon covers his face with his hand and says “You live to make my life impossible, don’t you?” He’s smiling, though, so Spencer returns it full force, glad that, at least for now, he’s got Jon and Ryan on his six.

 

 

 

 

As it turns out, Ryan, Jon and Spencer all have very different ideas about how this should go. Ryan keeps waxing lyrical about some sort of cathartic release of energy, and thinks Spencer should ‘find his center’ or some shit before he talks to anyone. Spencer’s pretty sure he wasn’t imagining the word “chi” coming up at some point.

Jon keeps focusing entirely on the security angle. Even though he’s off work and they’re all just hanging around with video games and potato chips in Spencer’s room, he keeps bringing his wrist to his mouth like he actually has his mic there and can start drawing up escape routes and shit with his minions. It’s all increased security and diamond formation and recon missions for literally _every_ room Spencer walks into and _every_ street he walks down.

Spencer kind of just wants to get them all in one place and spit it out.

He realizes after a few minutes that it’s highly unlikely he’s going to be able to gather his entire family together for even a moment, considering his mother’s currently off teaching young girls in Africa self-defense (or something) and she’s out of the country half each week. His sisters are usually pretty easy to catch, except they have summer camp and about a million extra-curriculars going on right now, along with Jackie’s new crush. His father is—hell, he’s pretty sure the only time his father has a free moment is when he’s asleep, and even that’s likely to be interrupted.

Which means he’ll end up telling them separately, most likely, because otherwise it’s never gonna happen. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he can convince his mother to tell his father, and then run and hide before anyone thinks to call the Press Secretary and start planning shit.

Spencer spares a brief thought for the fact that most people all that try coming out to their families are usually more worried about their reactions than actually finding the time of day to tell them, or finding them. He probably couldn’t even get a vague idea on his mother’s location if someone handed him a globe and told him to pick a continent.

Spencer sighs and tunes back in to Jon and Ryan, who seem to be bickering about…the efficiency of PS2 controllers over XBox. Spencer groans and falls backward so he can stare at the ceiling and says “Guys, aren’t we supposed to be talking about _me_ right now?”

He can hear Ryan roll his eyes, and Jon just chucks a pillow at his head again, albeit softer this time. He’s thankful for that. Despite the fact that he’s being pretty chill about this whole thing, he might be having a minor freak-out inside. And he knows his parents are okay with this sort of thing (at least, in theory. They’re democrats.) Brendon must’ve been scared out of his mind at the thought of telling his parents (conservative. Mormon.) Hell.

Spencer sighs and sits up, decides there’s only so much planning one can do, and challenges Ryan and Jon to a Halo death match, followed immediately by a randomly chosen PS2 game in order to properly test the controllers. He decides whichever console he kicks the most ass on is going to be his vote.

 

 

 

Spencer has been crazy busy lately, and so has Brendon, and so they’ve kind of been unable to find time for the last week, and it’s getting on Brendon’s nerves. Still, Spencer texts him all the time, mostly with random, 2am worries like _what if my parents’ church tells them to disown me?_ or _what if Jackie and Crystal get shit at school_. Brendon mostly just calms him down and assures him things are going to be fine, even when he’s not too sure they are. Though, to be fair, most of Spencer’s worries seem unlikely or inconsequential. From what Brendon’s heard about his family, they seem like pretty nice people that are totally going to love their gay son and join PFLAG or whatever.

If the President is allowed to join PFLAG. Maybe he can start his own White House PFLAG, and all the Congressman and Senators and people (if any of them have gay kids) can come and chat and be all supportive. Or something.

Still, the point is: Spencer’s family is going to be completely fine with it. It’s the rest of the world they’re going to have to worry about.

Brendon pushes those thoughts far from his mind and concentrates on the painting he’s supposed to be making. He can honestly say he didn’t know finger painting could be so difficult until he tried it and realized there were four-year-olds with better paintings than him. It’s their fingers; they’re so tiny and nimble and Brendon just feels oversized and clumsy whenever he hangs around these kids.

Rosie—that’s not actually her name but it’s what everyone calls her—toddles up to Brendon with her painting and plops it in his lap. She then promptly pats his face with her purple-coated fingers and toddles away again. Brendon grins like a loon and looks down at her painting, which is a swirl of random colors (it sort of looks like a dinosaur, but who knows.) Brendon gets up so he can pin it on the wall with the rest of them.

They’re having a pretty good day today; there’s been a lot less crying and a lot more laughter, and Alex, one of the oldest kids still here, asked Brendon for advice on college applications and also asked if it would be okay for him to come back here as a volunteer. Brendon has been beaming for the last half hour because of that, since they don’t get a lot of volunteers, and because Alex is basically one of the biggest success stories they’ve had so far. When Alex started coming here, he was supposedly so angry all the time that they had to keep him away from the other kids.

Brendon smiles to himself and goes to wash up so he can maybe bring a guitar in here and tinker around for some of the kids. Most of the kids aren’t allowed to play with the nicer instruments until they’re about twelve, but sometimes Brendon lets them come up one by one and each strum a chord while he holds down the correct fingering.

It’s a bit silly and also maybe part of the whole point of this place, but sometimes he swears it’s the kids that are keeping _him_ going, not the other way around. This was another one of those things that his mother didn’t really understand, surprisingly. He thinks she maybe thought this was a center for kids of prostitutes or parents with severe drug issues, and while they do have some kids with parents like that, a lot of them are just kids without a lot of money and with no place to go after school or during the summer while their parents are at work.

He tried to talk to his mother about the really awesome things they do here, but she kept changing the subject, and Brendon has half a mind to think it’s because she thinks all these kids are criminals-in-training or, like, born out-of-wedlock and raised to be Satan worshippers. Brendon has no idea what his mother thinks, anymore.

Gerard, one of the art therapists here, slinks by as Brendon’s grabbing the guitar, and gives him a shaky smile before disappearing again. Brendon likes Gerard, despite all the weird looks he gets from kids and volunteers alike, with his dark hair hanging in his face and his tendency to draw a lot of bats, and vampires, and zombies and things. He’s a sweet guy though, and he loves the kids fiercely, and the day he dropped by the diner to say hi to Brendon was the day Frank’s life changed forever.

Brendon managed to convince Gerard to keep coming back, especially on days when Frank was working, and so far they haven’t gotten past “Hi” and “What can I get you?” but Brendon is totally going to keep on playing matchmaker until they wind up adopting Zambian babies or whatever.

Brendon is just about finishing up with the guitar when Amelia, one of the volunteers—a very pregnant volunteer, actually—taps him on the shoulder and points toward the door to the play room. Brendon looks up, sees Spencer hovering awkwardly in the doorway, and grins so bright he’s pretty sure he could outshine the sun.

He tells the kids this is his last song, to much whining and moaning, and then starts in on one of their favorites—Little Juicy Orange, or whatever it’s called—because they can all sing along to it. It’s short, but he plays it through and watches as Jake—a timid, quiet boy that has far too many bruises, far too often—finally joins in with the clapping, even if he’s not up to singing yet. Brendon knows he knows the words, because he’s heard him singing them to himself before, but he’s shy and still pretty new here. Brendon thinks they’re getting to him, though, and it warms him inside.

The moment he finishes and stands to put the guitar away, the kids all scatter off in a flurry of screams and giggles. Brendon feels a warm hand on his hip as he snaps the guitar case shut, and then he stands to smile at Spencer and kiss him quickly on the lips.

“Hi, what are you doing here?” He asks sunnily, chewing on his bottom lip and locking his fingers with Spencer’s.

Spencer shrugs. “I missed you, and I had some free time and Ryan is being a whiny little bi—big shot,” he says, eyeing some of the kids warily, as if they’d have any idea who he is or what he actually meant. Brendon snickers a little, which gets him a playful whack on the arm.

“Well, now that you’re here, I’m going to have to draft you to service,” Brendon says seriously, watching Spencer with a kind of fire in his eyes. Oh, if there weren’t a bunch of impressionable children around.

“Oh?” Spencer asks, smiling a little like he doesn’t really think Brendon means it.

“Yup. It’s time to bring out the…SUPER JUMP ROPE!” Brendon yells the last part, and suddenly half the kids in the place squeal and start freaking out, and Brendon just grins and pulls Spencer bodily onto the outdoor playground. Logan rushes up and practically crashes into Brendon’s legs before a long, blue rope puddles at his feet, and Brendon throws one end to Spencer and backs up across the pavement, holding the other.

Spencer is looking just a little bit lost, and a little bit shocked, and Brendon just grins and says “Try to keep up, yeah?” before reminding all the kids lining up of the rules, and that if they don’t feel like they can do it without getting hurt, to practice jumping off to the side, or get one of the single-person jump ropes. (Brendon had way too many incidents with skinned knees and crying kids with this thing, at first.)

Brendon starts a countdown, and then when he hits zero, starts twirling the rope, slow and wide. Spencer seems to follow along just fine, and first up is Bobby, one of the most energetic 10-year-olds Brendon’s ever met.

The kids take turns jumping, sometimes going in pairs or even threes, always running to the back of the line as soon as they’re done. At some point, one of the other volunteers puts on music, and the kids all jump along to that, some of the more skilled ones even adding in little dance moves. Brendon grins so wide he feels like it could split his face, and at some point, he stopped watching the kids and just watches Spencer. The rope keeps twirling in between them, and Spencer’s laughing a little ridiculously, and his eyes are literally _sparkling._

Brendon thinks it might have something to do with the fact that none of these kids give a darn who Spencer is, which is always kind of nice for him, but he thinks it also has something to do with him, at least going by the way Spencer keeps looking at him like—like Brendon is sunshine, or something, like he’s the answer to everything, and he feels his cheeks heat, ducks his head, and smiles, because he feels the same way about Spencer.

Brendon only stops when his arm is literally about to fall off, and all the kids run off to find their own things to do again. Brendon wraps the rope up neatly, each loop drawing him a bit closer to Spencer, and then he’s standing right in front of him and just looking, because he’s allowed, and because the sun keeps making Spencer’s eyes look like oceans, and because it’s really freaking distracting.

It’s the easiest thing in the world for Brendon to press their grins together, letting his hand flutter at Spencer’s elbow, tasting the summer on Spencer’s lips. He pulls away laughing when one of the kids goes _“Ewwwwww,_ kissing!” and someone else starts singing nursery rhymes that Brendon would do well not to hear ever again.

“Come on,” he says, and takes Spencer’s hand again. “I’m gonna take my lunch break. We should—go somewhere. Together. Yeah?”

Spencer just keeps on grinning and hip-checks Brendon as they walk back through the building, weaving through kids and scattered toys. “Okay,” he says easily, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and Brendon hardly hears Gerard’s “See you later, Brendon,” as he drags Spencer away from the center so he can kiss him properly, the lurking secret service agent be damned.

Spencer seems to be thinking along the same lines, keeping his sun-kissed lips right against Brendon’s and wrapping his arms around Brendon’s lower back. They eventually fumble their way down the street, the bright children’s laughter fading as they go, but _it’s okay,_ he thinks, _we’re bringing the laughter with us._

Yeah, he definitely wasn’t this sappy until a certain boy walked into a diner and disarmed him with a smile and some mad omelet-cooking skills.

He’s never going to live this down.

 

 

 

It just sort of happens. He never really decided to tell his sisters first, but they were just there, and they weren’t going anywhere, and besides, they were going to be the easiest. At least, that’s what Spencer deduced _afterward_.

It went sort of like this:

“Hey, can I tell you guys something?”

“What?” Crystal says, and Jackie pops her gum. Both of them are watching some ridiculous show on the television about fashion, and they’re not looking at Spencer. They’re not even giving him the time of day, and honestly, if the Press knew how rude they were when they didn’t have cameras or politicians around…

Spencer rolls his eyes, gives it a moment, and says “I’m into guys. As in, like, bisexual.”

“Well, _duh,_ ” Jackie says, popping her gum again and sounding rather condescending.

“Huh?” Spencer asks.

Crystal rolls her eyes but doesn’t actually look at Spencer. “We know. You’ve been dating Ryan _forever._ ”

Spencer blinks again, and then cracks up. “Um, no. Ryan and I aren’t dating.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

“No, really. I’m dating someone else. His name is Brendon.”

“Yeah, okay, bro. Whatever,” Crystal says.

Jackie spits her gum out into her hand, inspects it for some unknown quality, and then pops it back in her mouth. “Can you move? You’re blocking the TV.”

That was when Spencer gave up with a shrug and walked out of the room. They’d figure it out eventually, anyway. Probably a bit after the media figured it out, with the amount of television his sisters watch.

Also, ew. Spencer and Ryan? Never going to happen. Ryan is like his brother, complete with annoying habits and a rather flippant attitude about pretty much everything in Spencer’s life. If Ryan weren’t so hung up on Jon (among other boys), he’d be a match made in heaven for his sisters. Probably Jackie more so than Crystal, but it’s been a coin toss lately.

The funny thing is, the one good thing that came from his little talk with his sisters was that he now knows his mother is both in the country and somewhere in the White House. At least, they saw her a little over an hour ago, so Spencer assumes she hasn’t hopped on a plane to Africa since then.

Which is both terrifying and kind of inspiring. Spencer can do this (or so he keeps telling himself, and so Brendon keeps telling him.) And now that he’s told his sisters (or reminded them, or whatever they think he did) he sort of wants to get this all over and done with. It’s way too much hassle for such a stupid, inconsequential thing.

Besides, Spencer’s pretty sure his parents can’t kick him out, what with them living in the White House and being democrats and all that. If they kicked him out, the entire liberal population would riot and deem Spencer’s father a republican (oh God, the horror) and he’d never, ever, ever be reelected.

So, yeah, Spencer’s got nothing to worry about.

He still grabs Ryan around his spindly wrists and drags him bodily to his mother’s office (it’s a sort-of-office, with a personal assistant that helps organize all her events and her project with the young girls in Africa. Spencer likes to call it the Rectangular Office.)

Sandy, his mother’s frizzy-haired assistant, directs them back around to the residence, saying something about cooking. Spencer may or may not recall something about a family dinner tonight, since they’re about due for one.

Ryan is still grumbling, but he mostly shuts up when they make it to the little kitchen in the residence, where Ginger is sautéing some mixed vegetables, and occasionally stirring the chicken broth. She turns when he accidentally bumps into a high-top chair near the island, and she smiles and says “Hi, Ryan, Spence. Wanna stuff the shells?”

And suddenly, just like that, everything feels easier. He nods and washes his hands before he grabs the colander with the shells, sets himself up on the island with the ricotta and browned beef, and gets to stuffing each of the shells before laying them down over the thin layer of sauce already spread in the baking dish.

This, he can do. He could do this in his sleep, and he thinks, if things like cooking are so easy between them, then having this conversation should be just as easy. He thinks he lost track of that, sometime after his mother started her project in Africa, when he disappeared into school and then with Brendon. He forgot that before they were anyone, when they were just a family, they used to do this. His mother taught him how to cook, how to love cooking, since he was old enough to stand on a step stool and peel potatoes.

She starts humming while she works, a small ditty that somehow blends with the sizzling of the sautéed vegetables, and Spencer will add in little percussion parts with the spoon on the edge of the bowl, and before long they’re both singing outright about the lonely piece of onion, and the smallest shell, laughing like maniacs and hip-checking each other every time they pass, and Spencer’s filled with such a strong love for his family that he can’t imagine why he was worried.

Ryan, in a stunning and rare moment of clarity and compassion, seems to have gathered that yeah, Spencer’s going to be fine, and has slipped off unnoticed. Spencer might thank him later, if he isn’t back to being an asshole about this whole Jon-thing by then.

As much as Spencer wants to let himself disappear into the cooking, he still gears himself up and lets his mother finish sautéing and move on to stirring the soup, since it seems safer, just in case. He keeps stuffing the shells because he’s not going to abandon his only distraction and make this bigger than it is, and says with false nonchalance, “So, I’m dating someone.”

His mother hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t say anything. Spencer’s grateful.

“It’s kind of serious,” he adds, because—well, because it is. He loves Brendon. He kind of wants Brendon to be around for awhile. A really, really long while, if he’s honest with himself. And Brendon seems pretty okay with that idea, too.

His mother pauses, considering, and then asks “Haley-serious or that-bitch-I-never-want-to-see-again-serious?”

Spencer sighs, because this is an old, _old_ argument, and says “Amy wasn’t a bitch, mom.”

“Don’t lie to me, Spencer James,” his mother says stoutly. “I read all those horrid articles she had written. Unless you’re actually a racist, sexist, right-wing bigot, then that little whore was spreading awful lies so she could get her picture in the paper.”

Spencer doesn’t try to argue, because after that whole fiasco, has mother had sworn to him that if Amy ever got within a hundred feet of Spencer or the media again, she was going to break into the Sit. Room and launch missiles at her apartment. Never mind that Spencer’s pretty sure it’s _impossible_ to break into the Situation Room, but she’d sounded pretty determined, so who knows.

“Maybe,” he concedes, and starts working on the second layer of sauce over the first layer of shells. “But it’s a more serious than either of them. I really—I mean, it’s just so—I feel like—”

“Oh, don’t strain yourself. God forbid you talk about your feelings,” his mother says sarcastically before shoving a spoon in his face and demanding “Taste.”

Spencer blows once, twice, and then sips at the broth, screwing up his face in concentration and clicking his tongue against his palate before saying “Needs more oregano.”

His mother makes a face and then actually whacks her palm to her forehead and exclaims “I knew I was forgetting something!” She turns to spin through the spice rack for the oregano, and Spencer goes back to the shells with an indulgent smile on his face.

“So,” his mother starts back up, and Spencer thinks she might understand that it’s hard to do these things face-to-face and is giving him an easy out, with the cooking. Not that Spencer would’ve let her cook a meal all by herself; there’d be at least one ingredient missing from everything. “It’s serious, but why are you telling me? Is she—” Spencer winces silently at the pronoun, “a reporter? Is she all love-and-cuddles now but just waiting for the right time to get an exclusive and—”

“Mom, no!” He cuts her off before she starts getting ahead of herself. “I’ve learned since Amy, thanks,” he adds drily, and relaxes a little when he hears his mother let out a worried breath.

“Then,” his mother starts slowly, calmer, “Is she a politician’s kid? Oh goodness, is she a conservative Republican? Are we going to start calling ourselves the Montagues and her family the Capulets and—”

Spencer rolls his eyes, smiling at his mother’s dramatic flair, and says “No, mom. I don’t know. We don’t talk about politics.”

“Well, that’s good,” his mother says shortly, and he indulges her, because he seems to remember a few issues when his father first took office, with Crystal’s then-boyfriend pushing some pretty radical political ideas without knowing what he was talking about. Thank goodness that didn’t last long.

His mother pauses again, chopping up some more carrots to throw into the minestrone before she lids it and lets it cook for awhile. “Can I get a name?” She asks tentatively. “So I can pull records and do a full background check, of course.”

Spencer smiles. “Jon’s already done that. And—” he stops to take a deep breath, putting the last shell into the dish and turning to face his mother. He waits until she seems to notice his reticence and turns around, eyeing him with confusion and a little bit of worry. He tells himself again that it’s going to be okay, and says “His name is Brendon.”

About a hundred different emotions flicker over his mother’s face, but she seems to rest on something between relief and understanding, and Spencer kind of feels like he just jumped off a building and discovered there were safety nets all along.

Still, there’s that last bit of worry, and it must linger in his eyes, because his mother cocks an eyebrow. “I didn’t think I raised such a stupid child.” She opens her arms, says “Come here,” and wraps Spencer up in a hug as he buries his face into her shoulder and breathes in her smell, trying not to feel like too much a freak, or do something embarrassing, like cry.

They rock gently, side to side, for a good few minutes before the soup starts to boil over, and his mom jumps away to pull the lid off and stir at it before turning the dial on the burner down a notch. Then she takes a breath, lets Spencer start coating the second layer of shells with a mix of freshly grated cheese, and says “You know you’re going to have to talk to Allison.”

Spencer nods and says “I know.”

“She’s going to want to get this out before it leaks on its own.”

“Yeah.”

“Your father is going to up your security.”

Spencer rolls his eyes and thinks about the smirk Jon is going to carry around for months, then says “Yeah, I know.”

“Is Brendon—does he know how this is going to be?”

“I—” Spencer stops, tries to judge exactly how much Brendon knows. He says he gets it, and he says he’s ready, but Spencer knows from experience that the media can break even the strongest people, and he’s scared for Brendon. He doesn’t know how well he’s built to deal with this kind of thing; he always seems so fragile, in Spencer’s eyes. He wants to protect him from everything, all the time, and he’s having a hard enough time dealing with the fact that he can’t. This is just going to make everything ten times harder. But— “I think he does. He says he does, anyway. I—I think we can do this, mom,” he tells her earnestly, because he’s starting to realize that what they have is… _more._ So much more.

His mother sighs and turns back to tend to the soup, but she sounds content when she says “Okay, then. Okay.”

Spencer smiles to himself and shoves the manicotti into the oven, setting the timer with a few quick beeps. With any luck, it might not get cold by the time they all manage to stumble into the dining room around 7:15 for their 6:00 dinner.

His mother must hear the beeping, and she’s standing on her toes to reach for the sea salt grinder as she says “It’s supposed to go 40 minutes at 350, at least that’s what the recipe says and—”

“I got it, mom,” he says, because he’s made manicotti more times than he can count, and he knows the numbers about as well as he knows his own name. “I spend long, agonizing hours in class learning about this, remember?”

She mumbles something angrily, mostly at herself, and finally gives up on getting the sea salt down until Spencer walks over and grabs it for her with a coy little smirk.

She glares at him firmly and he just holds his ground, because yeah, nothing’s changed. “When you graduate,” she says slowly, prissily turning back to the soup and grinding in a titch of salt, “I’m going to hire you to follow me around and cook for me, so I never have to touch a ladle again.”

“Fine by me,” Spencer says warmly, before grinning sharply as he places the sea salt back up on the highest shelf with forced ease—he’s not actually all that tall, though his doctor promises him at least a few more inches by his twenty first birthday. “I’m gonna go steal the good bread maker from the cafeteria, try not to poison anything while I’m gone.”

Then he bolts out the door to receding, indignant laughter, and threats to the integrity of his part of the pasta. As if Spencer would ever let his mother serve the manicotti; the last time she tried it, she pulls it out too soon and the whole thing turned to mush.

He still has to form a plan of attack for telling his dad, but he’s not worried. His mom is kind of fierce, after all, and she’ll be ready to pounce at the smallest sign of weakness. She’s been looking for leverage on him for awhile now because she wants to get him to pass some funding bill for self-defense programs in schools.

Spencer doesn’t try to understand the politics. So long as it means he still has a place on the Christmas card, he thinks they’re good.

 

 

 

Okay, let’s be honest here: when Spencer said _You’re going to have to meet my dad_ , Brendon really thought it meant, like, eventually. As in Brendon would have a few months to prepare for this, and, oh, you know, freak out. There was going to be a lot of freaking out.

And right now? Right now, he has about _fifteen minutes_ to get through all that freaking out that was _violently_ ripped away from him when Spencer, his stupid, moronic, totally worst boyfriend ever picked him up from work in a freaking _limo_ and—AFTER the doors were locked and they were moving and Brendon’s escape was an entirely moot point—told him they were going to the _fucking White House_ to have _dinner_ with Spencer’s family.

Spencer’s family, as in, Spencer’s father, as in THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.

Brendon is definitely suing his boyfriend for kidnapping, and, like, making him pay the hospital bills when he has a heart attack and dies.

Because this definitely isn’t Brendon’s fault. Definitely not.

It’s—okay, so they’ve been together for six months now, which is sort of a big deal? At least, it is for the both of them, because Brendon’s never really dated anyone before and Spencer’s brief stint with girls always ended after a few months. But anyway, it’s their anniversary today, which, yay! So Brendon was all giddy and smiling and giving everyone at the diner extra portions and even Frank’s extremely depressing mood (something about Gerard blushing and freaking out and running away when Frank asked him out) couldn’t bring him down.

And then Spencer had showed up in one of those crazy, sleek, black mini-limos that they use, and Brendon had smiled and definitely thought they were going somewhere special, and then he’d kissed Spencer and said the limo was really cool with the pretty color-change lights, and then Spencer decided to be _the worst boyfriend in the world_ and tell him they were going to have dinner. In the White House. With his family.

Because Spencer thinks Brendon is _suicidal._ And he keeps smiling, like this is okay, like this even lives on the same _planet_ as okay, and Brendon has his head between his knees and is trying to stop hyperventilating because it’s making him dizzy.

His boyfriend is crazy. _Crazy._ He’s dating a maniac. The First Son is off his rocker, which, you know, it could be hereditary, so Spencer’s dad could be one egg short of a dozen too, and really, that’s kind of a matter of national security, so shouldn’t they be calling this whole thing off to attend to that?

“Bren,” Spencer says, somewhere to his right. Brendon’s ears are kind of ringing, because, you know—trapped in a tiny metal box (probably impenetrable) with a _crazy person._ Headed toward what is no doubt going to be the Last Supper, because—oh god, what if Spencer’s parents are religious? He never asked, he doesn’t know, the news probably reported on those things during the election but it’s not like he cares, and what if he says the wrong thing, and oh god, oh god, Spencer’s dad is going to _kill him._

“He’s going to kill me,” Brendon squeaks, because maybe Spencer doesn’t know this. It’d probably be best to inform him that he’s currently taking his boyfriend to his very slow, painful, covered-up death at the hands of Spencer’s dad, because maybe Spencer would reconsider. He should really reconsider. This whole thing is entirely too dangerous.

Spencer hums a little, thinking, and then says simply “I think you’d be better off worrying about my mom. Besides, she already knows you’re my boyfriend, so she’ll get first strike.” Spencer snickers, and Brendon whimpers and tries to make himself a little smaller. Because okay, okay, yeah, he definitely didn’t think about the mom, she’s no doubt going to be fucking _vicious_ because she’s a mom and Brendon is stealing her only son’s virtue, or something, oh god, and—

“Wait!” Brendon yells and jackknifes upright, staring at Spencer with his eyes popping out of his skull. “Wait, wait wait!” He says frantically, and Spencer stops snickering long enough to watch Brendon flail helplessly. “What do you mean, she already knows? Doesn’t your dad already know, too? You told him, right? _Right?”_

Spencer blinks a couple of times and then grins with teeth that are way too pointy to be human. “Nope. I saved one for you.”

“Oh my god, let me out.”

Spencer just sits there, laughing openly, as if Brendon’s not actually having a freaking panic attack in front of him. This is _not funny._ Not at all, because Spencer’s father is the President, and the President is about to meet his only son’s boyfriend, and _he doesn’t know._ This is going to be a disaster. What the hell is Spencer thinking?

Oh god, he really wishes he had his cell phone right now, so he could call Shane and tell him to please read his eulogy at the funeral, because everyone else in Brendon’s life right now is _completely certified._ “No, seriously,” Brendon says, and yeah, okay, maybe the panic is starting to actually drown him, and it’s really not even a little bit funny. It’s just scary. “Stop the car and let me out. I can’t— Spence, when you said I was gonna have to meet your dad, I didn’t think— Spencer,” he pleads, because he doesn’t know what to do, he just keeps thinking this is going to turn out so much worse than it did with his parents, and he knows it doesn’t make any sense but Brendon is not prepared to meet the President of the United States. He’s just a poor college kid that works in a diner. That shit doesn’t _happen_ to people like Brendon, oh god, oh god.

“Calm down,” Spencer says when he finally stops laughing maniacally, and he wraps an arm around Brendon’s shoulder and pulls him away from the door. He was maybe, actually trying to pry the handle off and get the door open. Aren’t car doors supposed to open, even if you’re moving? They always open in movies, so people can shoot out of them and stuff, and so shouldn’t it open? They aren’t going that fast, Brendon could probably make it with only, like, a broken leg or something.

He can deal with that.

Except now, Spencer’s got him away from the door and pressed close, and it’s instinctive by now, nuzzling into Spencer and letting himself melt, clinging closer than usual, breathing a little more evenly. Spencer scratches at the back of Brendon’s head, and Brendon shuts his eyes shut against Spencer’s shirt, and asks in a small voice “What if they hate me?”

Spencer sighs, his chest moving up, pausing, and then down. “They’re not going to hate you,” Spencer says softly.

“How do you know?”

“Because I love you.”

And—alright, so maybe that makes this marginally better. And really, if Brendon ignores the part where Spencer’s the son of one of the most powerful people on the planet, it’s just like he’s meeting his boyfriend’s family. Which Brendon hasn’t done before, either, because he’s never really _dated_ anyone before.

“You’re a jerk and I hate you,” Brendon says pointedly, because it’s important that Spencer knows that. He could’ve at least given Brendon some sort of warning, so that Brendon could catch the next plane to China and disappear for awhile.

“Yep,” Spencer agrees simply.

Brendon lets out a nervous breath and clings close to Spencer, trying to keep his voice even when they go through a set of gates and curve around the empty roads toward the White House.

Spencer kisses him quickly before they get out of the car, and Brendon doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s quiet and calm, and Brendon’s eyes widen when he looks up and realizes that, holy shit, he’s about to walk into the White House. _The_ White House.

He doesn’t think he blinks for the next fifteen minutes. Spencer is sort of talking to him, walking close alongside him, but Brendon just sort of takes everything in, all at once, and decides he can breathe later. It’s not even like everything is that amazing to look at, it’s just hallways and offices and pretty, decorative rooms that you expect to see in any upscale business or anywhere in Europe.

But he’s in the White House. He’s just a music major with a job that pays a little above minimum wage and a hell of a lot of luck. Though he wouldn’t really call this lucky, necessarily, because he’s kind of terrified.

Dinner isn’t for awhile, or so Spencer says, and after he gets a sort-of tour that Spencer doesn’t seem that interested in, Spencer grabs his hand and pulls him through a maze of hallways until they end up in a quiet room at the end of a hallway somewhere. It’s got a pool table in the corner, and a cabinet filled with board games, but most importantly, it has a large, curving couch centered around a television, where Jon and Ryan are sitting, versing each other in an epic death match on Halo.

Brendon blinks, because so far everything has been so far from familiar that it’s weird to see Ryan and Jon there, like maybe Brendon had been transported to another universe where he actually belonged here. He can’t imagine what kind of crazy things must’ve happened for him to actually be in the White House.

Ryan looks up momentarily, not a trace of emotion on his face, and says “Hey” before he does something with his fingers that has Jon hissing under his breath. Jon says “Hey, Brendon,” and doesn’t look away from the screen. Spencer guides him by the shoulders and sits him down next to Ryan. Brendon’s pretty sure his brain is still hung up on _White House_ to comprehend any new information right now.

Spencer leans over to kiss the top of Brendon’s head, says “I’m going to go help out with the cooking, otherwise my sisters’ll burn everything.” Then he turns to Ryan and Jon and says “Watch him for me?”

Jon says “sure” and Ryan nods noncommittally, and then Spencer turns and walks out of the room, leaving Brendon sitting there in some unknown room, with a secret service agent and a philosophical head-case, _inside the freaking White House._

Where Brendon is now awaiting his imminent death. He wonders if he could convince Jon to just get it over with now, but one look tells him he’s off-duty and isn’t carrying his gun right now. Not that he doesn’t know a million other ways to kill a guy, Brendon’s sure.

He feels so far out of his depth that he’s pretty sure he’s hit the bottom of the ocean. He wonders if he’s ever going to be able to breathe easy, with Spencer around. Probably not.

Strangely enough, that thought isn’t as terrifying as it would have been, six months ago.

 

 

 

Spencer still isn’t entirely sure this plan is a good one, or really, that it’s a plan at all. His mom seemed to think it was best to approach the issue like ripping off a bandaid, or whatever, but Brendon seems sort of spacey and freaked out. Which is to be expected.

Still, this is all new ground for the both of them. Neither Haley nor Amy ever got so far as to meet his family, though he thinks Haley might’ve run into his sisters at some point. But they’d both taken off long before Spencer even considered introducing them to his family. That was probably a good thing, though, considering the way Amy had reacted.

Spencer is just a little bit worried it’s all going to blow up in his face, but his mother keeps assuring him, and distracting him by being _completely_ incompetent in the kitchen. Honestly, _honestly,_ you just don’t put the frosting on the cake _before you bake it._ And you don’t put it on what is, eventually, going to be the bottom of the cake! Why in the world they’re making bundt cake in the first place is beyond him, but his mother gets these ideas, and she does fine cooking most things, but baking? No. Beware of baked goods.

He gets so caught up saving the food from his mom that he really doesn’t remember to freak out half as much as he should. Besides, Brendon is safe with Ryan and Jon. Or at least, as safe as one can be when with those two. Spencer hopes they just don’t choose that moment to work out the issues between them and finally screw, because no one wants to see that, especially not Brendon.

At least, not before he’s expected to meet the President of the United States. Spencer sighs, kicks Jackie and Crystal out of the kitchen, and eventually kicks his mom out too, because she’s great at cooking some things, but definitely not the things they’re cooking tonight. It’s funny, because it’s a strikingly American meal, what with chicken wings and cobb salad and corn on the cob and bundt cake for dessert.

He loses track of time and dinner ends up being late, though he knows it’s beyond fine, because getting any member of his family here on time would be a miracle. Jon and Ryan show up and throw Brendon into the kitchen, closing the door behind them and saying “You deal with him.”

“Don’t touch anything,” Spencer says simply, finishes frosting a part of the bundt cake carefully, and then turns to look at Brendon and make sure he hasn’t had an aneurism in the last hour or so. He cocks his head to the side when Brendon is just standing there, still sort of shocked but in one piece and breathing. “You okay?”

Brendon blinks twice, looks at Spencer like he’s never seen him before, and then says “I have no idea.”

Spencer laughs, because that’s a very valid answer, coming from Brendon, and he crosses the kitchen instantly so he can fit his hands around Brendon’s hip and kiss. When Spencer pulls away, still smiling, Brendon offers a tentative smile back and says “You taste like frosting.”

“I made a cake,” Spencer offers as an explanation, and kisses Brendon again. Then there’s some sort of noise from the dining area, and Brendon jumps about a foot in the air and darts his eyes around. Apparently, he just remembered they weren’t the only two people in the world.

Spencer sighs inwardly at the timid-rabbit look he has on him, pats his cheek a couple times, and tells him to stop freaking out before going back to the frosting. When he runs his own restaurant, he’s going to hire someone to take care of all the desserts. Frosting is a bitch.

Brendon hovers in the corner of the kitchen, staying out of Spencer’s way and mostly just watching Spencer. Thankfully, it’s just him; usually Spencer gets a little freaked out when people watch him cook, because cooking is _his thing_ and he never wants the media to be a part of that. It just feels wrong.

Eventually, Spencer’s done all that he can, and he turns back to Brendon with a small smile and asks “You ready?”

It’s a rhetorical question, because Spencer already knows the answer, but Brendon blurts out “Absolutely not” anyway, and Spencer rolls his eyes. Then he grabs Brendon around the wrist and pulls him out of the kitchen and into the dining room. Crystal and Jackie are sitting next to each other, and Crystal is trying to steal Jackie’s phone to look at something, but Jackie keeps swatting at her. Spencer’s mom is quickly reading some paper in her hands, her assistant standing next to her and bouncing on her toes. Jon and Ryan are there, mostly at Spencer’s request, and they’re having some sort of conversation about frogs. Spencer doesn’t want to know.

Spencer’s pretty sure Brendon is a few seconds from fainting, so he figures if he just throws everything at him soon, he’ll be too distracted to pass out. At least, that’s the idea.

Jackie looks up sharply when they enter the room, and Crystal finally manages to snatch her phone. But then Crystal looks up too, and sort of cocks her head like she’s confused. Spencer manages not to roll his eyes; she’s been the most adamant supporter of the Spencer-and-Ryan-dating theory, which is total bullshit. Obviously.

“Guys,” Spencer says simply, confidently, “this is Brendon. Brendon, Crystal and Jackie, my sisters. And my mom is the one over in the corner being all boring and working.” Spencer’s mother is now in some sort of quick, frenzied discussion with the assistant. Spencer doesn’t think she’s noticed Brendon’s here.

Jackie narrows her eyes, and Crystal says “You’re not Ryan.”

At the other end of the table, Ryan snorts, and Crystal shoots an amused glare at him. He’s still holding on to Brendon’s hand, mostly because Brendon’s sort of using it to support himself right now. Spencer feels like his arm is about to be ripped off, but it’s totally okay.

Brendon’s eyes widen, and he manages “No, I’m not,” but that’s about it.

“You’re dating Spencer?” Jackie cuts in sharply. She purposefully doesn’t look at Spencer, because she knows Spencer’s glaring at her. Honestly, his sisters are going to make wonderful lawyers one day. They know exactly how to set a person on edge.

“Y-yes,” Brendon stutters weakly, and his hand sort of shakes. Crystal and Jackie both stare at him a little longer, and Brendon’s probably losing his shit, and he hasn’t even met Spencer’s parents yet. (He tries not to interrupt his mother when she’s working, even if she promised she wouldn’t let work interfere with this.)

“Huh,” Crystal says, leaning back in her chair and looking Brendon up and down. Then she says “You’re cute” and smiles, but at Spencer’s maybe-audible growl, she says “I approve.”

Next to her, Jackie nods her head in agreement, and then smiles herself, albeit a bit more hesitantly. “Nice to meet you,” she says simply. Brendon just blinks and mumbles something incoherently. Jesus, if he’s this freaked out already, he’s going to piss in his pants when Spencer’s father finally gets around to joining them. Spencer hopes he told Brendon that his father’s the one he has to worry about least, even if he has all the missile codes. (Spencer doesn’t know if his dad has missile codes or not. He doesn’t ask those sorts of things because he’s afraid of the answers.)

With Jackie and Crystal seemingly finished, they go back to fighting over the phone, which is now in Crystal’s possession. Ryan and Jon don’t seem interested at all in being a part of this, so he just drags Brendon past them, over to his mom near the door at the end of the room. Her assistant has that look on her face, the one where it’s like she’s smelling something particularly awful, and it means that his mom is being ridiculous enough to be annoying. Time for Spencer to stop it, then.

“Mom,” he says pointedly, and his mother blinks up at him blankly, taking a moment to transfer back from work-mode. Her secretary—Judith, or something—takes that moment to snatch the papers from her hands, ramble something about seeing to it that everything she needs is done, and leaves. Spencer reminds himself to buy her flowers later.

She takes a moment, but then she shifts to look over at Brendon, who’s trying to hide behind Spencer and sink into the floor. Spencer won’t let go of his hand, even though he keeps tugging at it.

Then she smiles brightly, and she basically pushes Spencer out of the way, and Spencer has to let go of Brendon’s hand because his mother is hugging him. Spencer bites on his lower lip to keep from laughing, because the look on Brendon’s face is _awesome._ Spencer wishes he had a camera.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Brendon,” his mother is saying warmly. It has an edge to it though, just a bit, that means she’s definitely ready to put out the barbs if Brendon doesn’t ring true. Spencer’s not really worried, because Brendon isn’t Amy. He isn’t even Haley. He’s…

Well, he’s Brendon.

Spencer’s not quite sure if that’s entirely a good thing, at this moment.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” she says, and it has that ring to it, that _I know where you live where you sleep what you eat I know everything and my husband is the President_ ring. Spencer rolls his eyes, and gives Brendon a thumbs up behind his mother’s back. His eyes just widen further, pleading with Spencer for help.

“Mom, you mind helping with the salad?” Spencer asks lightly, and his mother pulls away and gives him a speculative look, but she says “Oh, alright. Brendon, honey, why don’t you take a seat?”

Brendon nods dumbly and Spencer drags his mother into the kitchen, catching just a glimpse of Brendon stumbling into a seat next to Jon, mostly with his help.

As soon as they’re in the kitchen, his mother says “You’re sure he’s not a reporter?”

“No, mom,” Spencer says, exasperated. “He’s a music major, and he works part-time at a diner. That’s pretty much as far from a reporter as you can get.”

“Not quite,” his mother says primly, and then adds “He’s got the looks to be a reporter. It worries me.”

Spencer forces the salad bowl into her hands and says darkly “Don’t drop it.” She looks ready to protest that she would never, but sometimes, Spencer swears the White House has made her a mess in the kitchen, or with anything food-related. When Spencer was young, he didn’t remember all this foolishness with frosting unbaked cakes and things.

“And he’s not secretly meeting with a reporter?” She asks again, unable to drop it. Spencer stops himself from pushing through the swinging doors that lead from the kitchen to the dining room, and looks back at her.

“No,” he says firmly. “I think if he were meeting with a reporter, we’d know by now. Also, he’d never do that.” Spencer can’t really keep the anger out of his voice, mostly because this is _Brendon,_ and even if she’s his mom, Spencer can’t help feeling a little protective. It’s some sort of instinctual thing.

Whatever it is about his words, his mother seems to deflate and give up, and Spencer’s thankful. He wants his family to like Brendon. They can’t exactly do that if his mother’s convinced he’s leading a double life.

They walk back into the dining room with the salad and some fresh cornbread Spencer wanted to try making. It smells like heaven, so he thinks it turned out okay.

Brendon is having some sort of conversation with Crystal, though it’s mostly Crystal doing the talking. Brendon just kind of hums along at the right points, and Spencer hopes, when this is all over, that his boyfriend’s brain isn’t actually molten and dripping from his ears. He liked Brendon just as he was, and he’d feel awfully guilty if he turned him into a zombie, or something.

Spencer leans over the table to put the salad bowl right in the middle, and on his way back up he kisses the top of Brendon’s head and grins into his hair, saying “relax” under his breath. Brendon turns so red that Crystal stops in the middle of a sentence to crack up hysterically. Spencer holds on to his grin as he goes back into the kitchen to get that horrid dressing Ryan likes that’s way too sweet for a dessert, never mind a salad.

It takes a good fifteen minutes, but during the appetizers, Brendon calms down to the point that he can actually form full sentences, and look at Spencer’s mom without blushing madly and squirming in his chair. Though that might have something to do with Spencer rubbing soothing circles into his back, out of view, because otherwise Brendon would be blushing _constantly._

They agreed silently to start without Spencer’s father, mostly because he always gets held up with something. Spencer’s confident he’ll show up eventually, mostly because he knows his mom threatened him with death or worse if he didn’t show. Besides, he thinks Brendon should be taking this with baby steps.

His mother and Jackie are mostly leading the conversation, though Ryan seems to have a lot of opinions of the subject of—what is it they’re talking about right now?—modern art. It’s probably his obsession of the week, so Spencer makes note to mock him for it later.

Spencer’s mom is convinced it’s bullshit, though she’s using slightly more eloquent words with Brendon in the room. Spencer’s gotta agree with her, at least from what he’s seen. Not that he has any sort of opinions on it at all. He has opinions about what constitutes a good meal and a bad one, and a various assortment of opinions on personal things, like whether it’s okay for William to keep offering sex to Brendon when Spencer’s there—it’s not—but modern art? No. Spencer doesn’t give a flying fuck.

“What do you think, Brendon?” His mother asks, leaning her chin on folded hands. She’s been doing this since they all sat down, directly addressing Brendon so he’s forced to be part of the conversation. He still seems a little freaked, but he hasn’t run screaming from the room, and he seems calm enough to be able to answer his own questions.

“Um,” Brendon starts, but then sort of gains composure, grimaces a little, and says “Honestly? Some of the kids I work with paint better than that. I think that speaks for itself.” Spencer nods, and then about a second passes before he realizes Brendon has started talking about his kids, and oh man. His mother is going to—

“You work with kids?” She asks, and there’s a glint in her eye that Spencer recognizes all too well. She’s on the hunt for information, piecing Brendon together bit by bit, judging exactly what kind of person he is and whether or not he’s good enough for Spencer.

Spencer would’ve told her, flat-out, that Brendon was seriously the most perfect boyfriend someone in the public eye could ask for, but he doubts she would’ve believed him. Besides, it’s not like that’s why Spencer’s dating him. Brendon could be a bank robber and they still probably would’ve fallen in love, that’s just how ridiculous they are.

“Yeah,” Brendon says, and his eyes sort of light up, and Spencer smiles. When Brendon’s done, his mother is going to be just as gone for Brendon as Spencer is, if not more. He’s like a Christmas tree when he’s talking about his kids. “I volunteer at this center near my apartment, it’s the Meteor Activity Center? It’s this place for kids with problems at home to come after school, or during the summer, and we put on plays and paint and there’s music and sometimes, one of the kids, Billie, she—”

And Brendon’s off, talking with his hands and smiling like sunshine, and Spencer can’t really help it, he ducks his head to hide his own smile. Ryan is going to mock him forever for this, but considering both he and Jon are acting spectacularly stupid, Spencer doesn’t think he’s in any place to talk. Now, so long as Brendon doesn’t go into cardiac arrest when—

The doors on the opposite end of the room open, and Spencer’s dad is walking in while trying to tie up three different conversations all at once, and Jon bolts to his feet so fast that the chair behind him almost falls over. Spencer starts laughing in Ryan’s direction, because his not-boyfriend is being so dumb, but then Brendon sort of stumbles to his feet next to Spencer.

Spencer just stares at him, incredibly confused, and then Ryan is snickering at him, and Crystal and Jackie both burst into laughter at the end of the table, and his mom is looking on sympathetically and slightly pink-cheeked. Spencer doesn’t doubt it’s the wine.

“Brendon,” he whispers sharply, and forcibly tugs Brendon back into his seat. His face is glowing red and his eyes are wide and kind of just staring at Spencer’s dad, and Spencer rolls his eyes. At the other end of the table, Ryan is poking Jon in the leg and hissing at him, something about him being _off-duty_ and to maybe stop embarrassing everyone.

At least Jon has an excuse for his behavior; he works here, and everyone knows you stand when the President enters the room, unless you’re his kids and you think this whole entire charade is absolutely unnecessary. Spencer’s pretty sure Brendon is just nervous at hell.

Spencer’s dad nods in Jon’s direction with a bit of a look that would be an eyeroll if he didn’t know not to, and then Jon sits and starts growling at Ryan to shut up, because he’s laughing again.

“Good of you to join us, we were going to start without you,” his mom says and stands, pinning Spencer’s father with a look that’s meant to inspire guilt and embarrassment. It works, and she seems satisfied, and then lets it go. Spencer was kind of hoping to hang out here, to try to save Brendon from, like, dying, but his mother pulls him up and they both disappear into the kitchen to get the wings and the corn.

“You know Brendon’s going to die of fright, yeah?” Spencer asks sarcastically, taking the wings from his mother and letting her take the corn instead.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll be fine,” his mom says flippantly.

“Right.”

“He’s dated you for half the year and he’s still alive,” his mother says with one eyebrow raised.

“Point.”

She smiles and turns to bring out the corn, and Spencer follows with the wings, secretly hoping that Brendon isn’t having a panic attack. It’s actually starting to freak Spencer out, just a bit, that this whole thing might actually be too much for him. Still, Brendon’s strong. He can get through this.

Maybe Spencer can, too, if his sisters would stop _staring_ and laughing at Brendon attempting to stumble through some sort of…something. Spencer’s not really sure, but he thinks his dad is trying to explain the purpose of some Medicare bill they’re voting on. _Spencer_ doesn’t even understand any of that, though he makes it a point not to.

“Honey, what did we talk about?” his mom warns, in the sickly sweet voice that doesn’t fool anyone.

Spencer’s dad stops in the middle of a sentence, and says “Right, of course. No work at the table. Though,” he says intelligently, raising a finger. Spencer’s dad does things like that sometimes. He’s kind of a dork. “To be fair, I was simply attempting to entertain our guest, who has yet to be introduced to me.”

Spencer’s mom turns to him, then, along with the rest of the table. All but Brendon, who’s now blushing and staring very intently at his plate. Spencer wants to roll his eyes, but he saves it for later, ignores the rolling in his gut and says, “Brendon, this is my dad, and—as you already know—President of some country or something,” Spencer’s dad smiles at that, which is definitely good. “Dad, this is Brendon, my boyfriend.”

 

 

 

_Oh god oh god oh god oh god oh fucking Jesus Christ on a cracker oh god._

Did Spencer really just do that? Did he just—no warning! No lead-in, no pause, no moment to maybe _consider_ the fact that Spencer just told _the freaking President_ that Brendon is dating his only son, and that Brendon is now _dead._ He is a dead man, signature on the certificate, coffin in the ground, the whole nine yards of dead.

Spencer’s father looks at Brendon, narrows his eyes, rests his chin on folded hands, and stares. Brendon tries to swallow his heart so he doesn’t choke to death on it while it plays ping pong in his throat. It’s a bit of a habit, breathing. He doesn’t think he was ready to quit doing it.

Spencer isn’t helping at all, sitting back down silently next to Brendon. Everyone is silent, sort of waiting for some sort of—he doesn’t know, maybe an apocalypse? That seems pretty apt right now.

“You realize,” Spencer’s father starts slowly, words calculated and just terrifying enough. Brendon wraps numb fingers around the edge of his seat so he doesn’t fall off. “that I have the military, the secret service, and access to some of the most powerful computers in the world with full profiles on anyone I ask for.”

Brendon squeaks out “Yessir” and nearly shakes apart, but behind him Spencer drawls “Dad,” and Spencer’s mom says “Yes, yes, dear. You’re very intimidating.”

Spencer’s dad—the President of the United States, oh dear god—studies Brendon a bit longer, eyes still narrowed, not a single muscle moving. Brendon’s about ready to run for his life. He might even make it to the door before he’s shot dead, not that he thinks he has an ice cube’s chance in hell after that.

But then something shifts in the man’s expression, and he drops his hands and his eyes go back to normal and he says “I like you, kid,” and then he turns his gaze on Spencer and says “We need to have a talk with Allison,” and then “Now where’s the food, I’m ravenous.”

Then he helps himself to what’s left of the salad and a few wings, and everyone seems to follow his lead and start grabbing for the biggest corn cob. Brendon just sort of sits there, dumbstruck, his mind absolutely reeling until Spencer places a hand on the back of his head, says quietly “Hey,” and then smiles. His head is ducked at just the right angle so Brendon can see it.

That’s the kind of thing Brendon can be thankful for, and once he realizes Spencer’s dad has moved on to asking each of his daughters about their days (and weeks, really) Brendon lets himself relax. Just enough to loosen his grip around the seat of the chair and not fall over when he reaches for one of the cobs of corn. Somewhere, his brain finds it slightly humorous that he’s eating chicken wings and corn on the cob with his bare hands in the White House. It always seemed like the type of place that only ever served fancy food.

And the President sort of always seemed like a really serious guy, always talking about issues that are, quite frankly, way over Brendon’s head. He’s only been old enough to vote for a little over 2 years, and he’s only been registered for a few months, since Spencer convinced him he should.

But here he is, laughing at his daughters’ stories, keeping up an easy banter with Mrs. Smith, joking with Ryan and Spencer and even Jon, though Brendon thinks Jon looks even more uncomfortable about being here than Brendon feels. So he lets himself relax a bit more, smiling when something’s funny, warming a little inside every time someone mentions their relationship, like it’s a given, like it’s something that’s always been there.

And Spencer just keeps contact with him, a hand on his back or a bump knee-to-knee or, once, a smile pressed to the tip of Brendon’s shoulder, in plain sight, acting as Brendon’s anchor. Brendon relearns how to breathe, and smile, and laugh, and talk like he was just having dinner with normal people. It took him a bit longer, but by dessert he realized they _were_ normal people, just like Spencer is a pretty normal guy, once you get past the title. All that’s just fluff, anyway. Spencer still cracks up when Ryan winds up with a glob of chocolate frosting on his nose, and Crystal and Jackie insult him in the most childish way, and Spencer’s mom rolls her eyes and Spencer’s dad makes up a little tune called “Ryan the chocolate-nosed writer” or something, and it’s ridiculous, and it’s awesome, and they’re all just people.

Brendon doesn’t really know why he expected them not to be.

 

 

 

Dinner wraps up, and everyone either gets pulled away by work, or sent away by mothers with promises of dire retribution if reasonable bed-times aren’t met, or just disappears into the night, rambling about Voltaire, like Ryan. Spencer thinks Jon followed him, possibly. Jon’s just sort of a ninja.

Spencer doesn’t mind cleaning up, even though he knows the cleaning people that get paid lots of money to do stuff like this for them would be plenty happy to do everything. He likes the wind-down of a good meal; likes to make sure everything is in its proper place, and leftovers are stored away, and the kitchen is just the way he likes it so he can cook whenever he wants to without hassle.

Brendon helps him with the dishes, mostly drying—they have a dishwasher, but Spencer’s pretty sure someone would kill him if he put the china in that big steel box, so he likes to hand wash everything. He’s quiet, and Spencer can’t quite tell if it’s a good-quiet or a bad-quiet, but he hopes it’s the first one. It may not have been what either of them had in mind for their sort-of anniversary, but it felt right, and Spencer thinks it went well.

His dad’s already asked him to drop by tomorrow so they can hash things out, because he didn’t want to get into the grit of it with Brendon around. Mostly, it’s just going to be _who knows? who’s going to know? is the press going to know? how much of a shit storm is this going to be if it hits?_ and _I’m upping your security so much you won’t ever see daylight again._ It’s expected, though Spencer’s going to fight tooth and nail to keep his security down as much as he’s allowed.

It’s hard enough getting around to see Brendon with his normal security detail; if he has just one more guy, people are going to start to look and then comes the part where the press finds out, and that’s not going to be pretty. He’s trying to put that off.

Brendon says he’s okay with it, at least with what Spencer’s told him of how this is going to happen, if it’s going to happen. He doesn’t know, really, but he says he’ll be okay, and Spencer’s trying to take his word for it.

He’s still quiet while he dries the dishes and puts them away, unfamiliar with the cabinets but finding everything eventually. They don’t speak until everything is cleared out, and Spencer goes to shut off the light so it’s just moonlight streaming in through the window over the sink, and Brendon startles a bit, but he lets Spencer push his hips against the counter and kiss him. Brendon tastes like chocolate cake, and Spencer smiles and licks over each of Brendon’s lips before he pulls away.

Brendon blinks at him, like he’s confused, and Spencer keeps on smiling because this is the guy that he just introduced to his family, and made a part of his life, and he’s still here. He’s not like Amy or Haley, not like a lot of people, and Spencer considers himself incredibly lucky.

“So, did you have a good time tonight?” Spencer asks.

“I still hate you.”

“Yeah, but did you have fun?”

“I’m not dignifying that with an answer.”

“Why not?”

“Why not!” Brendon exclaims loudly, indignantly. “Why not, he asks. Because you—this whole thing, with the limo and the—your father! And he’s—and then there was—you didn’t even—just like that! _I_ didn’t even—”

“Hey,” Spencer says shortly, and shuts him up with a kiss. It’s proven to be a quite effective method, as of late. But Brendon must be coiled real tight tonight, because he’s about ready to launch into another tirade when Spencer beats him to the punch, saying simply “Happy anniversary. Sort of. Half.”

“I—” He snaps his mouth closed, looks at Spencer with some unreadable expression, and says “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Happy half-anniversary.”

This time, when Spencer kisses him, he tastes nothing like chocolate cake, or like anything else. It’s just him, just Brendon, and it’s all Spencer’s ever asked for from the start.

**Author's Note:**

> I think there's going to be one more part to this, though it remains to be seen when that part will come to be written. There will probably be codas after I finish the main storyline, mostly because I've never written a coda and I want to.
> 
> Title taken from Abraham Lincoln's House Divided Speech. I found it fitting.


End file.
